Revanche
by ChronicallyinFlaming
Summary: The mission to capture Darth Revan goes according to plan-except for the last part about returning to the Council with her prisoner. Unfortunately for the Jedi Padawan that rescued the Sith, now she's trapped inside a damaged ship, in unknown territory, and it's possible that Revan didn't suffer nearly enough brain damage to render him unable to speak. Bastila/MRevan.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:  
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**I had a short mindblurt one day, just a minor story idea that followed questions like, 'What happened after Bastila captured Revan? Did she have to drag him back to the ship? How did they get back to the Republic? Did she squeeze both of them into an escape pod? Was he just a drooling mess the whole time?' My story basically started off this with for the plot: Before mind wipe, after brain damage, Revan still himself and totally inappropriate with captor.  
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**This is what it bred:  
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****(Will be posted in three parts, hopefully.) ****

* * *

><p><em>You were laying on the carpet<em>

_like you're satin in a coffin._

_You said, "Do you believe what you're sayin'?"_

_Yeah right now, but not that often._

_Are you dead or are you sleepin'?_

_Are you dead or are you sleepin'?_

_Are you dead or are you sleepin'?_

_God, I sure hope you are dead._

**-Satin in a Coffin, Modest Mouse**

* * *

><p>Bright white, safe, whole, <em>all<em>

Beyond pain.

Until—

A scream with a tongue and lips and vocal chords that were not there from the air that nonexistent lungs. _Light. _It filled the absent eyes and unreal senses. A push into the chest, lung, heart that were so many illusions. There could be no pain as that required what was not imaginary.

_"Breathe."_

How could one still hear when they no longer had ears?

No, it would not be felt, it would be escaped in that wholeness that could be reached if one stretched to find it—

If one was not being slapped back into consciousness.

Possession of a body, trapped, in here, he (she) was in here

(they were)

Here.

Alive.

The light crushed. Separation. Birthed and shoved out. He, him, halved and parted and unwhole. Alone, again to suffer the crushing blow of consciousness and acknowledgement of a body with all its nerves that screamed.

Alone, he remembered pain.

Oh it hurt please. Throbbing head weighing thousands of pounds. A head. He can almost see himself. He can almost _see._

"Breathe."

Live.

Name, a name called. For a moment, he did not know who that was. Who? Who could that be? Hang back. Wait.

Should he answer?

But the voice demanded that a response. You did not disobey it. The voice did not make requests. "Revan."

Revan, live. You must, you _must. _

_"Breathe_."

Well, _alright._

* * *

><p>Bright white, safe, whole, <em>all<em>

Beyond pain.

Until—

A scream with a tongue and lips and vocal chords that were not there from the air that nonexistent lungs. _Light. _It filled the absent eyes and unreal senses. A push into the chest, lung, heart that were so many illusions. There could be no pain as that required what was not imaginary.

_"Breathe."_

How could one still hear when they no longer had ears?

No, it would not be felt, it would be escaped in that wholeness that could be reached if one stretched to find it—

If one was not being slapped back into consciousness.

Possession of a body, trapped, in here, he (she) was in here

(they were)

Here.

Alive.

The light crushed. Separation. Birthed and shoved out. He, him, halved and parted and unwhole. Alone, again to suffer the crushing blow of consciousness and acknowledgement of a body with all its nerves that screamed.

Alone, he remembered pain.

Oh it hurt please. Throbbing head weighing thousands of pounds. A head. He can almost see himself. He can almost _see._

"Breathe."

Live.

Name, a name called. For a moment, he did not know who that was. Who? Who could that be? Hang back. Wait.

Should he answer?

But the voice demanded that a response. You did not disobey it. The voice did not make requests. "Revan."

Revan, live. You must, you _must. _

_"Breathe_."

Well, _alright._

* * *

><p>Her head rose with an audible creak and her jaw clicked. Swallow.<p>

Around them, the fires no longer raged and the turbo lasers had stopped shining with their lethal beauty. Ships retreated, died, winked out. Through the viewer, she had watched all of it with the certainty that any second they would notice this lone weakened ship limping from the embers of the bay, watched the retreat of Republic and Sith fighters together from this area. Rounded and sharp ships alike growing distant. All had left long ago, and Bastila could unclench this fist in her lap and loosen the sweaty fingers so locked and stuck together.

Every sound, every tick, made her tense and pause. Things to be studied. Order inside it, ever pulse, beat-beat-beat under her own thoughts, so cluttered and of animal panic. Inspect herself again and again. The walls, the controls, the figure.

She had escaped. She was here.

Let go of the dumb fear, all of it. Her life had been given up to the Force, surrendered up years ago, she had accepted and known that. Since her first true battle, when soldiers had slipped past the guards and come after her, the Jedi with that Battle Meditation. Drawn her lightsaber in truth. She had not hesitated striking the intruders down, and her concentration towards the troops had lapsed only momentarily. Saw the damage her yellow single blade had done, then eventually turned back to the battle. Her concentration came back to her with such ease that Bastila had been fiercely proud. She was _not too young_, as her Master had feared. Or too prone to anger that might closer her off from others, those that were under her protection and depending upon her.

Bastila had proved that the reluctant faith they'd had in her was well-placed after all. That she had been right, to rush ahead and to face him, nearly alone at that.

She had been the one to continually strike blows against the Sith, to help the Republic against those that had sworn to save it years ago, risen high in the Order for one that wasn't yet a Knight, led troops through Sith space, had led the strike team to face Revan…now where was she, the one so gifted?

_Here_ was a small freighter. Something for minor journeys, hops to nearby planets, if that. As bad as the warped boards and fried chips that had blazed weakly at her fingertips, there was yet another concern.

What was worse, somehow, was the knot inside her, this _pull_—sickening, the sudden whole Bastila felt through the Force, so attached to her. Even with that collar, still, she could feel it and knew what it meant. Another thing she had read about but never experienced firsthand, not even with her own Master or her fellow pupils or the soldiers that she had fought with.

Of all people to have developed such an unwanted attachment through the Force with…

And still Revan continued breathing.

She checked the navigation system, the maps that no longer flickered on, the wiped memory. Nothing had changed.

Revan was not one for forgetting the small details. He had been a clever creature. Or at least, not a complete idiot. She had been told more than once, with some disgust, that he had made sure to grab communication relays and important maps. Before he had left and turned traitor, he'd made sure to backup databases. Dutiful and thoughtful, Revan had wanted and known that information could be the most important thing in a war. The Republic (and she remembered the look on that colonel's face as she'd told a younger Bastila of how the Sith Empire had grown so easily) had even known of his plans, if not helping him outright create maps of all he needed. They had given him all the keys.

This ship was anonymous, ominously so.

Bastila could remember the smoothness of that chair before the yolk, the Force so strongly with her still reach out and hold the ship together. Allowed her peace enough to take in the damage and ignore the tendrils of fear touch her heart, and had let Bastila coast this craft away (briefly, so briefly) from the fires that were all that was left of the proud flagship that had stalked around the Republic and whose hulls and shape Bastila knew so well by now.

The Force had given her the chance to hold herself together and retrieve the device from her fellow Jedi's body, to carry Revan through the hallways and steered away all the droids and soldiers. A confirmation that what she was doing was correct, perhaps. The Masters had spoken of such 'luck' and told their students to not question such things.

Thus Bastila wouldn't.

It didn't even matter, not now.

She had brought him here, and was now stuck with him. Perhaps he would awake, if the Force allowed it.

With that neural collar on him, tied up and drugged, she could take him. He was not so physically intimidating, especially out of that armor. No Malak. Unarmed as well for that matter. Exposed, as he hadn't been for as long as he'd stepped into the limelight. Bastila knew all the old stories.

Yet, despite the intrusion, the Sith Lord Revan might not even be her biggest concern.

There was something worse to fear, and it was in the front of the ship. Wires seemingly clipped, and melted. Tangles of them. Previous lessons, on Force manipulations, on the mechanics of ships, piloting lessons. None of it seemed helpful, and Bastila could spend the rest of her life, how little an amount of time that might be, cursing that she'd chosen this freighter—this small freighter, meant for the tiniest of voyages, and all the more useless when damaged. The memory was wiped.

Yet what had been the other options? Escape pods had been far, her previous ship looking too badly damaged from their rough crash through the failing shields, the others too far from her limited acquaintance with the flagships layout, too many soldiers that must crawl through these hall ways, panicking but still prepared to attack. Revan so limp against her. Explosions rocking the flagship, and Bastila had not even to sense for some sign of where to go. What_ else _could she have done but finally settled for this immediate escape?

From Revan, there was not movement, even as she checked their supplies again, did another inventory, checked the boxes again. There were basic medical supplies here, medpacs and sleeping pills and antibiotics. Bandages that would only cover the minor of wounds.

Black and violet almost sheer fabric. Up close it resembled the wings of some creature, a thing that lived in those caves of Dantooine with far too many legs and eyes. A hakama around his waist. Heavy gloves and gauntlets. So covered and hidden away. She wondered how many people had seen him like this, weakened and up close. Unmasked.

What was under that mask was the most mundane disappointment.

But when, then, had she been expecting, anyway?

Bastila looped back around, and this time, nudged him with her foot.

Nothing.

Not dead. Not even that badly hurt, not truly, not necessarily. That was why she had the neural collar, the cuffs that might stretch out his arms and left him as helpless as he might be capable. If it came to it, Bastila had the lightsaber she'd found on his belt. 'Who knew how many had been slayed by this thing,' she had pondered when grabbing it, and had nearly tossed it away. Better to have another weapon, after all. That final decision made while removing what she could of the outer armor and his mask, leaving an exoskeleton behind in order carry and conceal him with more ease.

Carried and half-dragged him here in a fit of pity and compassion, and now here he was. Possibly dying and there was nothing she could do for him right now.

Besides restraining him. Revan was tied him to the heavy bars attached to perhaps the very frame of the ship, impossible to pull out without the use of the Force. Long bars horizontally placed, so he could stand up when he awoke, if not sit entirely comfortable with his hands in his lap. In the center of the ship, no shadowy corner for him to hide weapon or pry anything apart. With that collar on, he would be unable to use the Force, and it would hopefully keep him befuddled enough to be handled.

It was the best she could do.

He still lived thanks to Bastila, but she doubted there would be many appreciative remarks for that. Anyone but a Jedi would have gladly left him behind. When they were discovered, she would almost certainly not be rewarded by the Republic for this act of mercy. Bastila had heard too many stories from those that had been wronged by this man. Gladly, most of the Republic would have been to hear of his death on that ship, grateful to her for making such a heavy blow against the Sith. Already, she was regarded with minor awe by soldiers for her Battle Meditation, well-respected by the people she served with, and to be the one that had fought and survived, no, _more_, beat Revan…

Bastila stared at his unmoving form, breath coming faster.

Malak was the one to be congratulated on Revan's defeat, however. For even this opportunity, the betrayal. Thanks to the inevitable in-fighting of the Sith, the sneak attack had worked. If not for the other Sith, Bastila and her fellow Jedi could very well have all died there by Revan's hand—for all the skills that were shared among her and the others, this was _the Revanchist_.

Two wars and countless duels under his belt. He had been so un-intimidated by the onslaught of Jedi on his prized ship. Yet, in the end, the light had prevailed, albeit with some outside help; Revan had lost. Even the betrayal had been so perfect in its own way. Of course the Sith turned on one another, and the Force truly had worked out everything.

Bastila nearly smiled, nearly humbled.

Behind them, his flagship would be fully broken up by now. They were lucky to be here.

The damage to the fallen figure had not been too severe, even as blasts rocked the ship and lights blared and flickered inside and out. If she'd left him there he would have perished alongside everyone else on his flagship.

The biggest loss of the war for Revan. At her hands.

How little there was onboard this getaway craft. How little Bastila had with her. A small pouch on her side that contained a small datapad and nothing else useful.

This craft was meant to sneak away on. Something hidden up the sleeve for an emergency. Revan's? Almost certainly.

Bastila inspected the walls and seats again, just to make sure. Who knew what traps might exist? Booby-traps and poisons and bombs. Remember his ship, dying in blossoms of fire. Sloping black floors and everything had pointed gradually to the bridge, inevitability. That could have been the name of Darth Revan's ship even, '_Inevitability'_, and the Sith Lord nearly had the ego to name it that. The things they had found on his flagship, the machines that came from the shadows. Slaughtering Jedi as they went, the nameless things. Horrors of that place, so many dying around her, and she had been so close to forgetting herself in the black and red halls.

The others beside her all gone now. Older and stronger and much more powerful than her. Acquaintances, names she had heard only of, fellow Jedi helping the Republic in whatever way they could surrounding her to _keep her safe_. She mustn't be caught. If she was unable to escape, if she found herself about to be taken alive by the Sith—what Bastila had already been advised to do than risk being captured by the Sith Lord.

For what had they all died for?

He had turned his soldiers against the Republic. Tried to turn the Republic against the Jedi. Promised the Senate in a broadcast that quickly became public that he did not wish to harm their civilians, no, it was the Jedi Order that he and his many soldiers fought. Those that had sat on the sidelines and watched the Mandalorians rape and pillage their way through the Outer Rim, yes, them, if that group was turned over, well, there didn't need to be a war did there? A sibilant voice in a masked face that made such reassurance that none could believe.

There was only peace, knowledge, serenity, justice and the Force.

Yet Bastila's doubts began always to creep in.

What if he never awoke? Instead traveled further and further into the darkness?

With that collar on, he might be unable to communicate. Trapped inside his own body. She could feel the stupor of it, numbing, if she didn't concentrate on separating herself from him. A Bond, yes. That much Bastila did know.

Or what if he awoke, and almost _magically_, was devoid of anything evil? Or of anything? Brain damage. He would open those eyes and return to being a young Jedi Knight, so eager to stop the war blazing along the Outer Rim. Amnesia. An indignant young man that would want to help her. 'We must stop those Mandalorians! What, try to hurt you, a fellow Jedi? Never.'

Younger than that. Emptied. 'What are Jedi?' And she would need to teach him anew everything and he would prove to be a decent student, and when they were saved, this new Revan would prove to be of great help to the Republic. All while the Sith disintegrated into civil war and Malak was defeated from the inside.

Bastila smiled, grimaced. She could always hope. If only briefly.

Brain damaged, and there would be nothing in that gaze. Glassy eyes staring to some middle distance. Trapped, enmeshed somewhere else; Bastila had seen head trauma before. Ruined and perished. All but dead meat lying there. She would bring back something useless and broken, just to prove a point. His face really was full of bruises, dried blood, veins, yellow-brown-red, and swollen. The faint impression of his mask still marked his face, here and there. Little x's of fresh red.

For this, so many Jedi had died.

Revan The Butcher.

An asset. With him, the war might be ended, and that was why those Jedi had died. For_ him_. They had meant not to kill him if it could be avoided, but to capture and take back to the Council. She knew this, had been told the plan, the strategy, a hundred times. A falter in the security will happen at this time. Long enough to slip passed, especially with her gift. Divert attention and that was all, Padawan. Remain with your guard and do not hesitate to retreat if it looks like the battle is turning for the worst. You are the best hope the Republic has of defeated the Sith.

She was, and had done that—to a point.

Padawans should have listened to the Masters, and had stayed back. Until another died around her, and she could sense Revan, a heavy pit, a black hole that pulled all Force users closer. A challenge and a call to all. Then she was hurrying on ahead, unheedful of the warnings of her guards. We must, we must. She would not fail. And hadn't. Entirely, anyway.

Bastila had captured him. Had saved him. She had thrown out a rope, and what was left of Revan had grabbed it.

But at what cost? Was it up to her to count the deaths that had been caused so recently, so many loyal Republic soldiers and good Jedi lost for his sake?

He might be just fine.

He might just be faking this to let her guard down. The moment she turned her back, he might strike.

There was dutifulness in him. Careful strikes and keen strikes to hamper the Republic, with no random smashing blows, but none of that meant he was not a monster. No one was finer on the battlefields, and Revan was infamous for the traps he laid.

Compassion should have been the reason why he, why _she_, was here. There was some of that, but it was to the lesser degree. That had been what made her _first_ reach out for him, but not what made her grab him with such strength. Anchor him firmly to the living, share and tie herself to him, just to make sure that he would make it through this. The unintended consequences were still being sorted out, and right now, Bastila had nothing but time to study it.

Not entirely Jedi forgiveness, and that shamed her. A cold part had looked down at him lying there, helpless, and known it was the chance to, to…capture him and being him to the Council. With him, the war might be stopped if he could be convinced. All by _herself, _for better or worse. Bastila could have fled and made it to one of the escape pods without him weighing her down, fought her way through any of the remaining soldiers, and safely be headed towards one of the Republic worlds. But Jedi do not run and leave the wounded for dead.

That cold part (what could be the dark side, couldn't it) that reassured her doubts as to helping Revan. Stop and turn him back to the light side. With his knowledge and power, the answers to the questions the Republic and the Order had, they could win this war he had started. There had been very little serenity in that moment, and no peace.

How much would no longer having Revan around slow the Sith? If only she had managed to stop Malak as well. The power vacuum would destroy the enemy. They would turn on each other without their leaders, eat each other alive.

She didn't know his real name. Had never seen him before this mission, and hadn't even been properly sure what gender 'The Revanchist' was. Still did not know what he sounded like without that mask and its voice modifier. Nothing but an ambiguous mystery, exactly as Revan wished to be.

Now she could see him. Even when she paced, when she closed her eyes, she had to see him. Skin stretched tight over high cheekbones, deeply set eyes, the spill of blood on unnaturally gray skin the only color, though now he had bruises to add some life to that face. Under half-closed eyelids, through dark lashes, his eyes had moved, unseeing, indistinct but too pale. Now at least his eyes were closed. He now had a smell as well, unhealthy battery-acid of a sick person, sweat and blood. It was the fact of a sick man, perhaps a Dark Jedi even, but not one of a Sith Lord that was slowly demolishing the structure of entire worlds and systems.

This time, Bastila nearly kicked him.

He surprised her again, Revan did. Made her gasp and all but throw her datapad aside, half-panicked, reaching for the lightsaber. A twitch. The left leg. Some reflex still worked.

Could he be faking? Hiding from her? With that neural collar on, snapped on with so much haste she had hardly been aware the physical contact, it was hard to tell. There was their connection, but Bastila didn't dare explore that.

It was possible he was suffering from damage more psychological in nature. Shock, long-term PTSD. This was a person that had fought in two wars. Though one of which was his own making, that didn't mean there couldn't be psychological trauma induced. If anyone was close to edging into insanity, why not him? Revan had been a Jedi, been raised learning the Code and taught compassion for all life, and what he'd seen must have made an impact. A part, if only in the beginning, must have been wounded at the loss of life. Could anyone do what he had done, and still be sane?

He had killed that Republic soldier whose name she would never learn without a second glance or hesitation. There was no doubt in her mind that he would have done the same to her. _Why_ had she saved him?

She might be able to break him from his previous path, no—fix him. Her datapad was here, and there was so much on it especially to deal with stress and fear. The dark side that such things led down. Bastila had dragged him here physically, so why not drag him back into the light, kicking and screaming. Bombard him, and reassure herself simultaneously of what she was doing. After facing him in combat, or nearly anyway, what was _talking _with him?

Bastila was already preparing the files. She had not spent as much time in the library and archives as other Jedi, but that didn't mean she was unprepared to help Darth Revan.

Bastila would save him from himself.

From others too, who had been twisted and shaped by his hands. All the Jedi and soldiers that had been turned to the dark side on his orders. There had been talk of rebellions, even in the Republic they heard of them. The nature of Sith. Other Dark Jedi grasping for power and eager to devour their own and would not hesitate should the wrong person expose their throat for them. His apprentice, best friend it was said, (when both had been capable of such) had turned on him the very moment the opportunity presented itself.

The shields had gone down, and the Jedi had slipped in.

Malak had some hand in that, perhaps. Probably. An advantage. Revan was not so invincible after all. Brought down by the dark side and the light.

It had been the Force that led them both together.

Bastila finally found a bomb in an overhead compartment. Unset, thankfully—as far as she could tell. Backup, in case the ship drifted off course, or a secret weapon? Better, she told herself, to die here and take him with her than be found by the Sith forces that might take Revan back to the helm gladly. Those other Jedi and soldiers would not die for nothing.

Bastila watched and paced. Sleep was beyond her.

What might come awake?

Quietly, she explored the ship.

Clothes messily put away. Of a durable, dark cut and for a large man, larger than Revan. Who had been here last? The refresher was searched again, and grimly, she was glad for the niceties to be found. Soap and other such things, though no brush or comb. A bottle of champagne tucked away and a few scattered boxes of food. There were worse ways to spend one's last days. Yes, Darth Revan was there, but at least there was_ floss_—no, Bastila had to remain calm and accepting. Capture her fear and let it go. Lots of other Jedi had been stuck with a Sith Lord, and they had been the ones tied up, for a slower more painful death than this.

Sleeping and pain medication, if need be. Bastila would be grateful that she had been given her gift, had been trained by the Jedi and loved by her father so. Many beings in this galaxy had been given so much less. She had faced the Revanchist and survived, and had tried to spare him. At the least, Darth Revan would no longer be able to continue waging a war on the Republic.

She would meditate, facing Revan.

Perhaps she could reach him, even with the damage and the collar, through their Bond she supposed had been formed.

If given the chance, Revan would torture and maim her. As he'd done to his apprentice. No, worse. He would break and shatter her, for as long as he could. All the things she'd been warned of, Revan would gladly perform.

A pattern in the tatters of his cape and robe could almost be made out. If she studied it long enough, what would Bastila find written there.

Tired. Shock and the draining of her own energy to protect Revan. All that dragged at her.

Finally, Bastila reacquainted herself with the narrow bed.

She would sleep here.

One pillow and a thick blanket and a sheet under it.

She could sleep here.

Theoretically.

Relax and close her eyes. Breathe and feel limbs growing heavier.

Her dreams had been—what had Bastila dreamed of…what had she _dreamed_? Figures coming at her, hands ablaze and full of light. Raising a blade to the foremost figurant, armed with yellow. Herself? Had it been a dream? Darkness around whoever Bastila had been at that moment in that delusion. Shadows flickering and growing larger, twisting.

It had not been full of darkness and pain, however. Or rather, Bastila had not felt afraid as she'd stood there.

The shadows were comforting old friends that could be gently nudged to see what one wanted. The cold was a welcome respite to the heat under the mask. These before them (_her, him_) so foolishly displaying their weapons, were nothing more than playthings. This was only a temporary game and soon they (_him, her_) would be free of all distractions and have acquired another arsenal, another piece.

There had been a sickening triumphant taste in the mouth. A smug satisfaction not quite a joyous thrum in the heart, but a content hum. Pleased for the patience of those that had waited. Finally, it was happening, after all that time: s_he was here._

And Bastila _had been_.

But that had not been her own dream, if that's what such a thing could be called.

She stared at the motionless figure in the corner.

The trap had indeed worked rather well. Just as the Jedi had hoped. Almost too well. All had suspected another trap laid somewhere to snag and capture them. One did not take a Sith Lord lightly. Yet Revan was captured and would no longer harm the Republic or kill another soldier or siege another world.

Still, there would be no more sleep.

Using the Force to manipulate the durasteel around his wrists, she double-checked the restraints as best she could with the rest of her kept at safe distance. His hands remained unmoving and anonymous in gloves and charred gauntlets.

Limp, his head remained on his neck. Chin against his collarbone.

He might be dying.

Or he might be faking.

The lightsaber was cool in her hands, nearly plain workmanship. The blade felt wrong in her hand, too slim and light. It could have belonged to any Force user, but for that shiver through the Force that whispered of the taint inside and around it. It had been used to kill Republic soldiers and Jedi Knights and Masters. Bastila didn't dare turn it on.

What had led him to this path? The great Revanchist, so broken. A laughing stock of the Republic he would be if seen like this. Finally, he was revealed to be no machine from the dark gaps of the galaxy, but only a man that could be tied up after being carried through a ship as one might a child. Turned on by his oldest and best friend, Malak, who had followed him to madness and death and ruin. The betrayals Revan had done, only to turn his back both literally and metaphorically at the wrong moment and find his almost-death at the hands of his pupil.

Saved only by the aid of a Padawan! He would have died if Bastila had chosen otherwise. For even the Jedi to have turned their back on Revan would have meant there was nothing believed left to redeem. If she had not listened to that voice that whispered of mercy and continue to cradle his body and spirit, and just left him behind, his betrayal would have been complete. But from where did that betrayal begin? Before even the disagreement with the Order, the feigned offer to the Senate of peace in exchange for their armada and the Jedi and his declaration of war?

There were many Jedi that had come from dark places. Ones they could not speak about, even as they grew older. Some that could learn everything but forgiveness.

She herself remembering the first day and night at the Temple, weeping and cringing, certain that all the unnamable alien spotted were monsters. A cringing small figure on her bed, half-sure that every shadow would swoop down and eat her. She had, after all, been naughty somehow, and Mother had sent her _away._

A new curious thought struck her: Did_ Revan_ have his own parents, bittersweet memories? Where had he been born? Had there ever been someone to tuck him in and tell him bedtime stories? Years and years ago, even Revan had been small and helpless, as hard as that was to imagine.

The younger Republic ensigns had half-considered him a machine. Rumors about how he never slept, never ate, apparently just stalked about like a little debutant with his growing kingdom. Dressed in shadows and always masked, who knew _what_ was under there. Sacrificing Jedi and drinking blood while making pacts with other Sith Lords he'd learned from during that time away from all known space. In-between the debauchery and torture of anyone unlucky enough to fall into his hands. No Jedi that faced him ever survived, and even those that had brushed by his presence and the war were changed. The strange droids onboard his flagship…

All claptrap to scare the youngling with, Master Vrook had dismissed, days earlier before the Jedi strike team had left. There had been a human behind that mask, and one that had bled and been harmed. Revan was nothing but an arrogant newly anointed Jedi Knight that had decided not to listen to the Council. The Revanchist was only a—

—_Had he moved?_

Just then?

Nerves, Bastila dismissed. All in her head.

_No_, that left boot had moved. Definitely had moved. Again. She had to be strong. He would awake soon. Open eyes in that swollen face. As though she had summoned him back to life at this moment, Revan stirred. Alive, if not entirely robust as he had been once. Hopefully.

Bastila would be strong.

Awakening, finally. To her mixed relief. That movement might signify that he could be whole, or only slightly damaged. Perhaps he could help her. He might want to repent what he had done, and agree to return to the Temple on Coruscant, and he would show her how to get this ship working. Or there would be nothing in him but shivering movements of brain damage, something in-between comatose and catatonic.

There could be anything in that twitching body.

You could not afford to assume he could be trusted. Every word would be a lie, a feint, a warning and a danger. Bastila would have to protect against all of what he might say. Threats and promises and pleads. All of it would have to be ignored and herself kept safe and whole from this monster. A brief second, to inhale and remember the Code, remember her Master.

Then Revan the Butcher began to awake.

A swallow. Lips parting as best they could, scabbed and bruised and sealed with dried saliva. A hum and a very confused _huh._

For a moment, Bastila was unsure if this was truly Revan, if she had grabbed the wrong man, if the horrid figure on that ship had only been a feigned actor assigned for this very purpose.

But _his eyes. _

Revan stared at her.

How he tried to form words, to put together the pieces of what had happened, and Bastila leaned forward. His tongue slipped out to taste the blood at the corner of his mouth, and there was a cough, a whisper. Finally, Revan began to speak: "Are you an angel?"

Then he smiled.

Bastila had never pictured him with such an expression, of being capable of making jokes when before the stories and speeches had been so self-righteous and serious. A person that had the weight of the galaxy pressed to his young, unafraid shoulders. A man making a joke. Blood had dried on his face, tacky and it would eventually flake off, to be peeled off by gloved fingers if his restraints were longer.

Then Revan noticed the state of his hands. So casually sucking in breath and staring back at her some more. The way he raised his eyebrows could make the small hairs on her nape stick up. "But this _is_ a familiar dream."

To her horror.

Then he stopped smiling, and it became _worse_.

"Malak."

"Yes."

Eyes alit with something terrible that burned yellow and red. "_You_."

"Me?"

Did he know who she was? It would be not a huge surprise to find out that Revan knew who she was exactly. That dream, or vision, seemed to indicate he had indeed wanted to capture her. More than a minor blip on his radar yet, even as he destroyed another system, destabilized another government. Revan seemed too meticulous to not know even the Republic's best weapon against him at the moment. Good, that he knew who had brought him down.

Chatting with a Sith Lord. That's what she was doing right now.

"The girl, ah, the _Padawan_. Something about felines? It's on the tip of my tongue." With a slow exaggeration, he licked his lips.

"Bastila Shan."

"Yes, I swear, normally I'm better with names. Once you were caught sneaking into the archive after you set some rare book on fire. Vrook made you scrub pots in the kitchen for a month."

Anew, Bastila remembered the strategies this man had used against his enemies, all his brilliance that had led to him being knighted so quickly. That he would remember such a thing…_numb_, that's what she felt_._ Leaden. Aware of the skin and muscle on her face that faced the brunt of his stare. A Knight that had seemingly never been reprimanded a day in his life, from that tone. When all it had been was an accident involving a high-powered telescoping facing the wrong day under strong lights. The damage had been minor, truly. "Two weeks. And I did not sneak into the archives."

"You were a cute kid I bet. So…_angry_ even then."

Angry? Was that what he saw? A vengeful angry Jedi about to punish him? _Was_ she angry? Her hands were balled into fists, and there was always this fear beneath the current, but Bastila did not seek revenge.

"I was not."

"Your later Master, I remember, never quite got along with Kae." His voice dropped, plummeted, from overly-neighborly to hideous. "My_ replacement_ is what you are."

Your captor.

Feeling came back to her fingertips eventually. "Everything is about you, isn't it?"

The Sith took notice fully of his collar, of his defenseless state. "Do you think this will stop me?"

His face was an awful, molted thing meant for sneers and disgust. "You're going to listen to me. You will release me. I will fix the ship. Perhaps I will not even kill you." Something cruel flashed across that face, as though Revan just couldn't hold back his own anger. The mask, the lack of a mask, exposed him again. No murder for her. No quick death. Bastila would be tortured, slowly. Until she longed for the chance of suicide. "You _will_ follow my orders. Now."

The Jedi Sentinel leaned back. "Are you done?"

"You have no idea what you've done, little Jedi," Revan hissed. "I have done more to save the galaxy than you ever shall accomplish. Your mind is incapable of understanding the full extent of the danger."

Bastila could almost understand the dark side a little better, after this. Perhaps her Master would have been proud. "I understood the danger just fine."

"You don't have to lie to me, little Jedi." Revan stared, so _knowingly_ even as he asked, "Where are we?"

She didn't know. Even now, she couldn't be certain. Not dead.

Revan could smell and feed off her unease. "_Where are we_? This isn't an escape pod. The freighter? This is not something for long travel." His voice grew hushed. Understanding sponged more color from his face. He looked nearly young. The Dark Jedi could not use the Force but Bastila had heard of his interrogations. It must be easy to read her face. "_What did you do_?"

"I saved us!"

"From what?"

"Your apprentice turned against you. You remembered that, didn't you?"

Did he?

When Revan sucked in air, it hollowed his cheeks. "Why didn't you just take an escape pod?"

"They were destroyed. The ship was in ruins. We hardly made it out alive."

"You're lying."

"No—"

"About something. Malak was a firm believer in overkill, but something went wrong."

"Nothing went—"

The entire mission had and hadn't been perfect. They had stopped Revan, but she was trapped in here too. A willing sacrifice though. The Republic would have to go on without her Battle Meditation. Bastila would accept death, had accepted it when she'd agreed to go on this mission and face this man. This was not quite what she'd imagined, but it was a victory.

"—Nothing went wrong!" she insisted.

Yet still they drifted, untethered and alone.

And everything must be there on her face.

"This ship cannot be capable of long travel… and why am I _here_? Why are we both here?"

"I tried to save you. To show you compassion, Revan. We were trying to capture, not kill you. And no, I didn't have time to check every ship that was left. The crew members were dead, as were the Jedi. This was the only one that could be found. The others were in even worst shape. We're lucky to have made it this far."

"_Where are we_." His teeth were bloody.

She had heard of him making speeches before, and had read the reports. Words, moving ones, even, about life in the Republic, about the Jedi Order, about why they had to fight, always fight _to be_ greater. Rousing grandiose words meant to inspire. But now, when she heard him use that gift to stir awake fear, Bastila understood a little easier how Revan had been able to turn others to the dark side. He was tied up, restrained, her life already knowingly forfeit, and yet Bastila felt a trickle of unease. Revan must have been very good at interrogations.

Still, Bastila would not lie. "I don't know."

"Are you on autopilot? No. No." He could hear the frightening _lack _of noise. "This freighter is broken. Isn't it. So, yes, you saved us. From a quicker death. You don't even know how ignorance you are. Why I'm doing this. What is to come."

As though she needed her face rubbed in their predicament further. "Another cryptic statement will surely make things_ clearer_."

"Did you never wonder why I turned against the Republic?'

"Self-aggrandizement. Revenge."

"Idiot child. I turned against them to reshape, not to break the galaxy. There was no ego in that."

Bastila made a sound of derision. His very title was one of vengeance.

"You would laugh? I have seen what the Outer Rim holds. The Republic will not be able to stand against it. It's too old, dying, scattered. That is why I formed the Empire of Sith."

"Wonder who was the cause of that? How convenient for there to be another enemy that only you and the Sith could defeat."

The smoothness of his unnaturally gray skin rippled when he was upset. "_Did the Council tell you about this_?"

Upset. Furious. An anger she felt rolling across the Force, even with his collar. Malcontent, oh yes.

Eyes of a lizard, a krayt dragon, a Lord of the Sith.

"No."

"They don't know." He stared up towards the ceiling, thinking aloud. "They did know, but they say I'm the cause of what they felt."

"What are you talking about?"

"There must be some way to get the attention of another ship. Sith or Republic. We still have one lightsaber. Between our Force abilities, we should be able to handle most of what comes this way."

She was on her feet, too close to him. "_Excuse_ me? You think I'm going to help you murder anyone else?"

In the flat planes of his face, she saw her own disbelief. "You think this is about_ teams_? No, this is about survival."

"I know that you cannot be let go."

With a strained, fraying patience, Revan licked his lips. "We'll die here. Worse, both our _sides _will lose. Does that get through to you? Destroyed by something you cannot imagine."

"Better that we die here together, than let you go on. I swore, _swore_, that I would stop you."

"You would…you're expecting to die."

"I'm always willing to die."

"Frack, but you are a Jedi. You." He laughed, as though helpless not to. "You have no idea what you've done, and yet you're so proud. A minor setback. That's all this is. I have faced so much worse than you and survived, Padawan."

"I won't let you."

"Will you murder me? No? Because I'm your prisoner. But isn't there some Code that prevents you from torture your prisoners?"

"As though you would know."

"But you're not me, are you? No, better to slowly perish here." Another laugh, unhinged, unsteady. "We will die floating in the middle of nowhere, and you're _okay _with that."

A dry-heave made his entire body clench through the remains of his clothes, scattered armor, and she nearly touched him. He was no longer standing, as high as he could, but stooped from the pain. Anguish, he was capable of that? "I _failed_. Force. I never saw this coming. The _Force."_

When he opened his eyes, Revan wasn't that slight man only a few inches taller than herself, narrow shouldered and light enough for her to drag quite a ways.

She remembered anew the warnings the other older Jedi had given her before this mission.

Malak had been a great swordsman. One of the best of their Order, he'd only gotten better with time and the years spent on the battlefield. It was said that his time in the hands of Mandalorians had left him with no fear of pain but lots of experiences inflecting it. Few physical weaknesses, a firm grasp on the Force, a long reach with his single right-handed blade. A bad man to be cornered by.

And he'd never won against Revan.

Lips peeling back from his teeth. His teeth (_what he could do with those teeth_) exposed and dangerous, Bastila had never feared being bitten by a human before. But Revan wasn't human, not exactly. She had seen marks of the dark side, from fighting Dark Jedi, but never so much of it. More than something as simple as one's complexion, or even the faded irises, but actual possession.

As he never had before, Revan appeared mad. Livid. Insane. He snarled.

He would—what could he do?

There was fear here, inside herself, to be taken and banished from her mind. Nothing but a whiff of pollen to be plucked and set loose.

A ball of ripped fabric, from his robes, was taken and snatched up. It wasn't hard to reach out and yank open his mouth further. Despite his physical strength, he could never be more powerful than the Force. Insert the ball. Five seconds.

She had just gagged Revan.

Tied and gagged the Sith Lord.

Then just use the Force to hold it in place so he couldn't spit it out.

"If you act like an animal, then I will treat you as one."

His eyes held murder in them. Every line on his face promised a certain special retribution for every second of this indignity. The veins that bulged and throbbing a blue under the delicate thin skin. When Revan became mad, his face went flat and pale, but when he was truly _enraged_, his ears turned red.

She would _not_ be afraid. Of their situation, of the blackness to his pupils that sucked you in, of him and the power he still did possess. This was Darth Revan, but Bastila would not be frightened.

"Go ahead. Continue having your tantrum, Revan. See how far it gets either of us."

She remembered her own Master, dead now due to this war, years ago assigned to help Bastila hone her newly discovered talent at Battle Meditation. Her only talent, she was so told, everything else fell short of this gift. _Mediocre_…Bastila's Master would have explained the situation patiently to her student and helped them get to a common goal. Facts and hard discipline and commands to control themselves. Failing that, would sent Revan to his room without dinner. Or to the corner to pout after another long speech listing all of the man's flaws and where he'd gone wrong exactly.

This was as close to that as Bastila could go to silencing him so he might listen.

His hostility would never end, go fully into retreat, but it _simmered _now. Perhaps he could not feel the Force, but that didn't seem to matter on her end. The brunette could feel him digging into himself, questioning the past few hours, wondering how he'd been captured and led here by _her._ Looking inside for answer, just as a Sith might do, rather than trust the Force.

She did pull the gag out however. What if he grew sick again, more powerfully, and choked? They might die here but Revan would not perish due to her negligence.

He did not thank her. Eyes closed, unhealthy pallor to his skin, even for someone so deeply possessed by the dark side. "Jedi sneaking onboard. I thought perhaps someone was making a move against me, but it seemed too soon. The Republic hadn't yet fallen." Revan licked his lips. "Surprising the Jedi were willing to send you, their last fleeting hope, to come get me."

"I volunteered."

"Interesting." He swallowed, slowly. "Curious? That's good. The worst type of Jedi are not. That closes their eyes and turns away from the truth. Will you let me out?"

"No."

His face was blank, but she could see the poison in his eyes. "You won't."

"To all of what you claim."

A pull at his constraint was another confirmation.

No, she would not let him out or help him escape in any way. No pity or fear. There was no escape from this.

Revan then seemed to understand and fully appreciate their situation.

He didn't seem to care then, about talking to her, about the blood on his wrists and his own physical pain. A wild animal with its paw caught in a trap. He wasn't Darth Revan now, not without his power, this was nothing but the raging of a man not much larger than herself. One unafraid to hurt himself, even bashing the back of his head repeatedly, yanking at the heavy bars keeping him in place.

She had to use the Force to stop him, though didn't even try inserting the balled fabric in his mouth.

Slowly, it burned out.

All the life had burned out of him.

Blank-eyed as a doll. Catatonic, and Bastila feared he really had done severe brain damage to himself.

How long did they look at each other, then?

They could survive for perhaps another month. Perhaps two, using the Force and stretching out their supplies.

Two starved miserable months.

Then he stared at her, focused and aware. The bloodshot eyes yellow poison.

"I'm going to kill you, Jedi," he promised, sincere and flat. "I will make you rue the day you even joined the Order. No one will hear your screams but me, and I will _savor _them."

"_Not if I_—" No, she mustn't, she couldn't lose her temper. Not here, not with him. Bastila would not give him the pleasure of seeing her fall to the dark side. Her last act would be of the light, of goodness, not losing herself in a mad rage and harming the man she had done so much to protect.

But there was the beat of an increased pulse in her veins, and it hung in the air, soiled the oxygen. Something sour in the mouth, familiar, _excitement _and eagerness for this confrontation. Just as she had moved ahead, ignoring the warnings from her guards as more Jedi died around them, fear heavy on her tongue as she ordered them forward because all of this _couldn't _be for nothing. And so glad every second to still be alive, and sure that every step brought them closer to Revan. They could stop him, they _must_ stop him.

His own livid face reptilian, watchful.

Perhaps they did have a Bond, and one that might affect her. She could feel him, muffled and distant. A person in a room far away, but still with only a wall separating them

At least they hadn't killed each other. Yet.

The_ bogan_ had held Revan in its grip for far too long. Once there had been a Jedi Knight, slight and brilliant, always with his best friend and with so many admirers. Everyone had respected and trusted him. For those six months he and the third of the Republic military forces he'd taken with him had disappeared, the entire galaxy had mourned and feared for their loss. He could have been the Grand Master of the Jedi Order, and only enriched their Order with his gifts. Taken and trained many Jedi to Knighthood. This was what he'd become.

Such a _waste._

"Get that look off your face. You have no idea what you've done, and yet you look at me as though I were the one to have damned the galaxy to a slow death."

"You will not fool me, Revan. I could turn that device on your neck up higher, Revan," she reminded him. Turn him into a drooling invalid, wipe him clean of any intention, good or bad. Finish the job Malak had started.

Sometimes, Bastila felt the headache that wasn't caused solely from her own stress.

"Try it. Just try it." His grin was nothing sane.

They watched each other for an untold time, long enough for her eyes to grow dry and her joints to stiffen.

Until she decided to sit at the small table with its hard chairs, and watch him there.

The Order had hoped he could be spared. Life was never to be wasted. For interrogation. Perhaps they could have gotten the answers they sought, if things had gone according to place. The Masters would have known how to gently steer the conversation, how to use the Force to convince him to talk, how to speak to Revan without angering him or

She could just see herself demanding answers from him. 'Right now, Revan, reveal all the secrets of your Empire that so far none of us have been able to discover! Right now…please?'

No, she would not get any truths from him. And no, Bastila would not beg him.

There had been too many interrogations and torture from him. Revan knew all the tricks, and had never been afraid of pain. In single-combat he had faced the finest warriors from so many systems, and had never lost. How could she wear him down to the point where he'd betray his own Empire?

He was not a man that dealt in half measures. Only gave exactly what he promised. All under the guise of fairness and justice. Revan had always made a show of offering an open hand to the Jedi, should they want to join him, and Bastila would do the same. "You are being given a second chance, Revan."

"Are you asking for me to cry and beg forgiveness for all my various failings?"

"Only you can find your own absolution."

"Then why drag me before the Council? Forever their loyal kath hound. Is that the way of it? You have no real thought process in that head, do you?"

"Of course I do." But the words were for herself, to stall while she wondered how to ask about the strange droids onboard his ship.

"If you did, you would have let me die there. But even then, you were trying to be the good little apprentice."

Just looking at him sneering made her nauseous. "I am a _Padawan_."

"A _Padawan_. I can't believe—you should have let me die on my ship. Force. And you_ applaud_ yourself for sparing me. How did you even do that?"

"You were hurt. Not too badly, but that hit on the head…"

His form so limp in her arms. But here he was, still talking and able to follow a conversation.

"And?"

"I used a medkit," she said, finally.

"Yes. And what else?"

Could he feel it, even without the Force?

"The Force, obviously. There was brain damage, that's also obvious—"

His voice cut through the air. "Yes, yes, some showing of supposed Jedi wit. I want details as to what happened."

Bastila kept silent. Bad enough to think that a certain connection_ might_ have been formed. Soldered and buried where neither could see it. Could he feel it, even with that collar?

"Now you have nothing to say? Don't you _ignore me_."

She discovered, realized, something wonderful with that statement, that refute against this entire situation. It wasn't wise to anger him, no, but there was nothing that he could do. And so what if he did become upset? What were the odds that either would survive another, say, month? Bastila could ignore him. Could get up, and use a tea bag found in one drawer warmed on the tiny over with minimum heat and half a cup of water.

"Where are you going?"

Go about moving and just avoiding bloodshot eyes. Ignore his straining arms with the veins so raised and the muscles twitching in his legs. He could not even kick her, if Bastila was careful.

She held up the fragrant bag. Something half-familiar to her nose. "Would you like some?" The brown-haired Jedi even sounded self-assured.

His nostrils flared, but eventually he nodded. As though it physically pained him, but at least it was a start at conversation. Perhaps with his help, they could find a way out of this mess. If this had been his private ship, there would have been failsafe's and security measures for this very incident, but perhaps Revan had some trick to communicate. Hail the Republic and return to the Order with him in chains. For now, Bastila would be grateful for this second of peace.

Making tea for a Sith Lord. They would talk more of this situation and the trap they were in. Later, she would meditate with her back to him, and then sleep with that bed across from him in this narrow freighter. Until they were found by the Republic cruisers that should be in this area. There was a single filament of a fact floating to the front of her mind: she didn't want to be connected to this man in any way, not physically or through the Force.

Revan grimaced at the taste, but did not attempt biting her or spitting at her or kicking. "No sugar?"

"No."

His exhale made her tense, feeling his breathe on her face. "Now will you tell me what happened? If I act like a good calm little Jedi?"

"I used the Force to heal you, as I said."

"Why do you avoid eye contact with me when you say that?"

Bastila saw the streaks of amber, old bruises, the sun of Dantooine that made up his gaze. How could anyone do that to themselves to such a degree?

"After I saved you…we seem to have formed a Force Bond."

Revan didn't need any more clarification. "_Joined_. Is there anything you don't screw up?"

Better, that he disliked her. Being respected, admired, by a Sith Lord had to be a bad thing. Bastila might come to savor his insults.

Once, years ago, like so many other Padawans, she might have wanted to have this man's respect. More than a strong fighter that wanted to help others, he was an intelligent person that could hold his own in any argument, a man that stood up and proclaimed that they must fight—how many were not moved, if reluctantly, when he spoke? It had seemed in that long ago time, all the Padawans wanted to join him, to be trained by him, to simply bask in the almighty presence that was Revan, covered always and so mysterious. That was a group that must have included her, hadn't it?

"Will you kill me?"

She sipped her tea. Tart. It did need sugar. "Jedi don't kill prisoners."

A crooked grin spread across his face. The skin beneath his nose was too pale, soft, almost limp. Did facial hair still grow there? Limp dark hair, feral and rough sprouted from his head. Features grown less sharp, flattened. What had he done to himself, and his apprentice to himself, to each other? Once, younger Padawans had looked over their shoulders to make sure no Master was around, then had argued over who was better looking, what they supposed Revan looked like, or Malak. Bastila, newly apprenticed, very conscious of her own responsibility, had always made a point to huff and roll her eyes if she was nearby to hear such dreck. Only a few years older than her, and already swept up in the excitement, Revan had become suddenly a figure all noticed.

She hadn't met him before,_ ever_, as far as she could recall. Before he was even The Revanchist and had only been a gifted Padawan.

That entire period was remembered as being a long time of discomfort and alertness. The war beginning to rage, the recent attack of the Enclave and herself so newly aware of her sprouting height and legs grown so clumsy. Excitement in the air as it seemed as though anything could and would happen any second.

There might be a dimple set in his chin, Bastila saw, all but shuddering. "I won't tell."

"I spared you so you might have a chance at redeeming yourself."

"You don't believe that."

"If someone wants to change—"

"I'll stop you there; I don't." Revan was disgusted. "Don't look to me for gratitude for taking your mission so overenthusiastically. You won't get your pat on the head from me, child. What will they do to me?"

_Child?_

"I can't say."

"I will break out of any prison. Stop making that face. Humility is the mark of a true Jedi, is it not? You shouldn't bristle so." Revan had kept the same level voice throughout the entire conversation.

"I did not 'bristle.'"

"Like a kath hound in the rain. Why should you care that I fail to pretend you're old enough to know what you might be doing?"

Great Jedi before her had brought others back to the light. It could be done, theoretically. Talented, better, stronger Masters had done that, however. Bastila was not even yet even a Knight…Still. _Still, _if she had managed to find the compassion not to leave Revan to his dying ship, Bastila could try to offer him a choice. "This might be your last chance."

"Yours as well. How many regrets might you have, Bastila?"

"Not as many as you should, Butcher."

"What a nice title. Say, _Bastila?"_

She mourned the sound of her name; he had turned it into an insult and a warning. "Yes?"

"I think I found a fatal flaw in her diabolical plan to convert me to the light side?"

She all but slumped forward. How many hours had it been? A day? "What's that?'

"I have to pee."

"Wha—"

Oh. Krif. That…had not fully occurred to her. She could not let him out. But couldn't just let him stay trapped like that. Gods, how long would they be like this? How much food and oxygen and water did they have? Even using the Force to sustain herself, there would be a limit. Revan couldn't even do that.

Blazes, she—what could she do?

The price of her dignity was worth more than his life.

"What about showers?"

"There's a small sonic one in the back. In the refresher."

"…May I use it?"

"No. I'm not letting you out."

Muscles in his face rippled with fury held in the checked restraint. "We seem to be at a standstill here. And I still have to urinate. Do I get a bucket at least? And what of food? You may be able to use the Force to slow your metabolism, but I cannot. In case you haven't notice, I seem to have a collar around my neck that prevents that.

More questions were coming to him that she didn't want to answer.

"How much supplies do you even have? Water?"

"Three, maybe four weeks. If I use the Force to sustain me, perhaps two months of supplies?" A dizzying, horrifying prospect that Bastila would not allow herself to think about. How many hours, how many minutes…? No, enough.

"And me?"

"I won't let you starve."

"That's a death I never would have suspected. All these battles." Revan was looking around, closely. "Did you _clean_?"

"I dusted."

His expression could not be stood any longer. Bastila left him, briefly. There was a handy solution in the refresher. Thank the Force.

She kicked a bucket at him.

He gave her a look of pure disdain. Not even her Master had been capable of looking at Bastila like that. "And how am I supposed to use that?"

Revan could only move his arms so much.

Oh. Oh no.

"What _are_ you going to do?" He nearly smirked. Until he understood. "You could make this easier on us both and just loosen my hands."

She approached him, and tried to watch all of him. He would bite, claw, spit. There was no one here to pull him back, to save her from his madness. Revan watched, those eyes so sly and knowing. Standing up, next to him, the height difference was surprisingly slight. They had all thought it was just Malak's towering form that made the other Knight appear so slim and average.

"This armor is_ ridiculous_." How do I even remove it…?

That was a dangerous, awful question and yet one that had to be asked.

This was just one of those things Bastila would gloss over if they were saved.

Complicated claps hidden away in the dark billowing folds of her robes. What was this loop in the front? Why was there so much fabric? What service did this serve and how did he not trip over it? How did he even get this on in the first place? His main breastplate had been removed by her earlier, in a fit of paranoia in case they did find another person in this ship as it fell apart. Oh, _krif_, wrong clasp. His bellybutton like a bullet wound. Old scars and torn tissue knitted crudely together. He had fought and not seen enough kolto. Did that mean the Sith were running low on it? They looked old, his wounds. Overlaying those were new bruises and cuts. His armor had cut into himself when he'd fallen.

Ah, at least he was wearing pants under here. One mystery was solved. Should she live through this, she could inform the giggling Padawans of this fact. The hard pelvis cold even through the fabric. Find the folds here. _"Black_ underwear?"

Tight and that absurd of-course color. Of course he wore that.

The Padawan laughed too hard.

"Here's a tip, Padawan. Should you ever find yourself with someone dumb enough to agree to let you touch them, perhaps you shouldn't laugh at them." He kept his voice casual. A man that would ask what time it was. A _man_.

"What are you talking about?"

"Do you not know? Truly? Surely you can't be so naïve. Haven't you spent time in the Republic military?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

Confusion was a tactic Sith were familiar with. It was best to ignore Revan while he rambled.

He watched her all the while she slipped into the role of a nurse, practically and flatly denying the full extent of this moment. It was nothing more than having to drag him here and apply bandages and change fluids.

Bastila didn't even shudder too much. Or vomit. It was all a medical procedure. This was what came from exploring the dark side. A reminder that he was human and needed help as anyone else would in a familiar situation. Thus far, Revan was being treated with far more decency than he'd ever shown the Jedi that had fallen into his hands.

Bastila could live past helping Revan this way. This was nothing, truly.

At least Revan didn't bite her.

She still had a weapon. Comforting to have nearby, despite knowing what it had been used for. At least it worked, and if necessary, Bastila _would _use it. Revan, killed by his own weapon after having been betrayed by his apprentice had a grisly justice to it.

Her stare towards it lingered too long.

"Is that my lightsaber?" Revan asked.

"…yes."

"Where is yours?" He stared at her belt. "Dare I even ask what happened to your own?"

She had put it down for just one second. To remove his mask and see if Revan was (_a machine a woman a man_) still alive. Then Bastila had gathered the unmoving but breathing figure closer to drag back to an escape pod, and had simply forgotten about her weapon. An idiotic mistake to be sure, but at the time, it hadn't been the largest priority—considering she was aboard a wounded ship that was being fired upon.

But Revan would accept no such details that might take away from insulting her.

He sounded like her Master. "You are the brainless twit. And I thought those interview were just misleading."

Such an ungrateful, awful man—

_Interviews? _Krif, he had seen _those_?

A flood of heat finally filled her face; Bastila remembered the reporters. All the cameras pushed before her, to be aired on the Holonet with only a cowl pulled down low to hide her face. Badgering from the press that wanted to know all about the Republic's newest weapon, would she truly be able to stop the Sith, could she save the Republic, was she was good as Revan, as Sunrider? Feeling again her age before those bright, hungry eyes with their constant questions. What was her next move against the Sith Empire? Did she know of their latest battle plans? The things she could not give an answer to, and only stammer—especially when the questions turned far too personal.

Bastila did not grimace. "You watched those?"

"Of course I did." Revan was annoyed. "After all the comparisons I suffered through?"

How could he ever use that word? "That _you_ suffered through?"

"The next in line. All the hopes of the Republic. The chosen one of some stripe. Surely you heard the same things."

Bastila did remember the comparisons. To Sunrider and with Revan and Malak. All great Jedi, but two of them brought so low with their arrogance. She must not forgot the lessons of such examples. Never lose her way as those two had, control her temper, recall the Code and recite it again. If only she could be as good as the lauded Jedi of the past, such as the woman that had shared her gift. She wouldn't be, especially now, but perhaps Bastila could_ try_ for the same courage.

Not everything would failed. Not if Bastila had her way. She pulled her hair back tighter, ignoring his smirk, and found her true weapon. A glow with knowledge and offering comfort.

"I haven't failed. My mission was to capture and return your back to the Council so you could change your evil ways."

"That is not going to happen," the Sith Lord informed her.

Her eyes dropped down to the screen. "We'll see."

Bastila began with the Scroll of Discipline. Ancient before even the Enclave had been settled, passed down from generation to generation of Jedi. It was not her favorite text, but certainly full of things that pertained to the situation she was in. A small bar in the corner of her holopad detailed how many pages it had, how many pages they had to go.

Revan sneered at her.

Then another hour passed.

Gradually, he stopped making that face and found a new expression. "You truly intend to read that entire thing aloud, don't you?"

Bastila nearly smiled, and flipped to the next page.

He leaned back, and both remembered his recent defeat, his most recent defeat. "Perhaps your voice will give out."

Another hour drifted along, and her voice did not give out.

Revan truly was an arrogant child, for all the years spent as a Knight. Perhaps the time as a would-be despot had spoiled him. He was used to others following orders and doing all he commanded. Well, Bastila would make sure to correct that bad habit of his right away.

No, Revan, no matter how you beg, I will not 'shut up.'

For the first time, seeing his grimace and how he yelled, Bastila felt that she must be doing something after all.

All the answers were to be found here, and she would give them all to Revan, shove them right down his throat if need be.

No matter how much he resented being told of what he'd once known and forgotten through his time spent fighting the Mandalorians and plotting against the Republic for whatever maniacal reason. It was what must be done. There was no chance, only the Force, and it led them to this. This was another test to be taken and the most important one of all.

Bastila _would_ turn him to the light side. No matter how often he made that face and pondered aloud the mortal danger of swallowing one's own tongue.

"I did inform you before that you couldn't win."

Revan, it turned out, also did not appreciate more recent reminders of his folly.

When she tried to question him about the war and the Sith Empire's resources, he ignored her or offered only cryptic answers: "It will take more than your clumsy groping to get me to spill all my secrets."

He in turn dismissed all attempts at giving up his empty title, leaving her further disgusted: "No, I will not address you as 'Master'."

When she gave him water and food, he grimaced and pulled away from even that. Up close, the Sith looked worse somehow. All bruises and dark veins under skin turned sallow. "What if I refuse to eat?"

Sly.

While Bastila was feeling her own hunger and exhaustion. As he'd mentioned before, her throat _was _beginning to ache. Two long months, perhaps, of this. "Starve then. I can't force you to eat."

"You do care though."

There, there was the weapon. He would do the proper Jedi act, and hold only the person he had any right to hostage: himself.

"Will you force me to feed you?"

He tugged at his restraints. "You've given _yourself_ very few choices in that matter."

"Fine." If he wanted to be obstinate, then Bastila would feed him like an infant. _Fine_ then. It wasn't her place to say what he deserved, but if it was punishment that he wanted, then she would assign some. Let him be treated like a child and 'suffer' through another hour of lectures through one particularly masochistic brand of learning: a haranguing chapter on the dangers of the ego from a force user of some minor renown from Celegia. Even she felt weary, reciting such berating.

He, at least, still did not bite her.

After, after she could say that she'd had enough. "I am going to rest now."

Eventually, she settled on the bed and refused to give Revan any pleasure in seeing her discomfort.

"You're going to sleep like that? Not even loosen those braids? They look uncomfortable."

She huffed and rolled over, and resisted the urge to pull the blanket over her head.

Still, she could feel his stare. Hear his breathing. The implied familiarity that came with such sound only further bothered her.

The first true night with the implications of sleep. How had she managed through the first night? A lurking horror right there. Lights never dimmed. Close her eyes briefly. Meditation and the Force and its calm sweat peace served, but only for now. Only for so long. All her senses were needed.

He never closed his eyes, it seemed.

Though he did cough, slow at first, then increasingly ragged.

Bastila wanted to hide her head under the pillow. It drove her to all but asking if he were alright. But that might all but a lie, a feint to get her to let him out of the restraints. Instead, the Jedi would focus on her breathing, inhale and exhale, the weight of her chest and every pull of her lungs expanding. Stretch out through the Force and feel the peace of it, the connection with it that explained her own gift with Battle Meditation.

Somewhere, perhaps nearby, the Republic might be leading a new assault on the Sith. They would be thrown off by the change in leadership, it had been surmised. Darth Malak would continue on, but how many worlds had agreed to the Sith's demands solely because of loyalty to Revan? Did Malak control the Sith fleets and reign as the Sith Lord? Would the Republic finally have an edge on them, without Revan at the helm?

Did the Masters wonder where she was? Was she already considered dead, or captured? Did anyone mourn her, or would the Republic be able to win without her Battle Meditation?

Was he still awake? Could one cough in their sleep? Was Revan sitting there as comfortable as he could get, just watching her? Watching her for what? Could he see her? See her discomfort?

Bastila felt a fool for asking aloud, "Are you asleep?" She swallowed. "_Reva_n?"

"Shut. Up." Then he coughed.

She was able to settle down.

He would be fine. It might all be a ply, and more the fool she was for even letting Revan rattle her. He was the Dark Lord of the Sith, and as such couldn't be effected by head wounds or—the dark side? Perhaps it needed to go through his system like a virus, and that was all. In the morning, Revan would be his usual terrible, demanding and opinionated self.

When she awoken, Revan the Butcher was still tied up and collared, but there was something wrong all the same.

Through the dim trickle of their hypothetical 'Bond,' Bastila noticed his retreat. A lack. The power dimmed.

"Revan?"

"What?"

He was staring at her, and Bastila finally looked back. "You don't look so good, Revan."

"Neither do you."

Her hair felt a mess, and she adjusted the braids as best she could with her fingers. She could feel his gaze on her, and ignored it. Any moment, Revan would have some smarting comment about her appearance. "Is that why you were watching me?"

His face was one for sneers. "I was not 'watching' you. I'm amazed there's even this much oxygen left considering how much of your ego can fill a room…"

Since when did Revan deny his efforts in making her uncomfortable? Why would he after threatening such torture yesterday? "You _were._ Don't lie to me."

"You're not worth that much effort. To lie to or to check over. Believe me."

Bastila looked at him, perfectly blank until he found a new topic.

"What will you do today? More meditation and reciting the Code? Will there be more lectures? How exciting." Then he began to cough again.

The oddest leaps, some intuitive, others just a mark of his paranoia. Lapses in though, disjointed conversations that led nowhere. He did like to talk. Chatty. Even as his breathe caught in his throat.

"Do you never shut up?"

"Which one of us has spoken more, I wonder?"

"For your own—"

"Is it for me, or to reassure yourself, Shan?"

This too: they both hated to be interrupted.

So they cut in on the other's remarks and conversations, constantly. Stomped and fought each other, as important a fight as any she might have put in on the battlefield. Every parry and stroke met with a counterstrike and a flurry to beat the other back. Bloodless but painful. Language was life to all species, Bastila had read, been taught through cultural studies. All creatures must find a way to communicate with one another. Only the dead had no more to say, supposedly. Thus, it was followed that this arguing was their lifeblood. Proof they were still alive.

That might be comforting.

Eventually, hearing his voice might be _comforting_.

Revan might need her too. This failed messiah, could he stand to die in silence. His voice must be heard, by someone. Anyone.

Listen to me—

Oh, _shut up._

On the third day, he wouldn't move. Or fight. Or argue or insult her or try to convince her to let him go. Rather, he would prefer to just pretend all was lost, he was dead and so was she, so why speak? Why pretend and scratch out another day? Or he was lulling her into a false sense of security.

"I won't just let you die. Not after I dragged you from that ship."

"I don't want to talk to you." His head hung. "I can't anymore. Untie or kill me, but don't draw this out. I ask on your honor as a Jedi."

"You depend on the 'honor of a Jedi'?"

"Yes, it is cruelly ironic." Revan hardly seemed to see her. "Why don't you? Just kill me and be done with this? Jedi: perform justice."

"That would be only murder."

"Vengeance then. I have lived by that particular sword for so long its only fitting to be killed by it. I have surely hurt you. Your entire life has been in service to defeating me."

"I am a Jedi. My entire life will be in service to the Republic."

"To the countless dead I have left behind then. Why should I not join them?"

"Let the dead avenge themselves. There has been enough bloodshed."

His eyes were wide, jaw less tense. "You really do mean to draw this out, don't you?"

Bastila watched him shivering.

This was not her first time out of the Temple, for all his comments. There had been diplomatic assignments and various training tasks. Duties that came with her gift. But this was her first true mission, alone and without anyone else. She had medical training and knew how to navigate and could pilot a starfighter. But this might be her final test, and one that was to be failed.

Later, Bastila would assume that Revan had been closer to exhaustion than he would admit, before she'd even captured him. He had been running on fumes augmented by the Force and held up only through sheer, stubborn will.

With that…

Revan only turned his head, when he did response to her questions at all. He brooded and mumbled nonsense. He referred to her as 'Devourer.' He dozed, then reawakened to blurrily take water but no food. Sweaty curls stuck to his forehead and his color was high, beneath the marks of the fight and the dark side. Marks of his doing, and from his apprentice.

Without his own defenses raised, their connection had never felt stronger, so much more definite. Before, Bastila had wondered what went behind that face, what it must be like to be trapped in one's choices, in literal and metaphoric chains, and now she nearly knew. His thoughts rose to the surface, slow and stupid. She felt the ache in his joints, his gums, the stifling anger and rage over physical pain could turn his brains as useful as jelly.

Rarely had Bastila seen a drug addict, even on Coruscant. Yet she knew the comparison was apt. The drunkard, yes, on worlds during her time in the Republic, on Dantooine even when she left the Conclave. Shaking and dripping sweat that pooled, dark circles under the unsteady eyes. Sober-dry of the Force. Concussion, blood clots, and aneurisms were all words renewed in Bastila's vocabulary, and she tried to keep him talking then and awake.

"I won't let you out, no matter what. So if you are faking, you had better stop it. Or I'll—stop feeding you. Since a sick man obviously can't keep food down."

Nothing.

"Revan?" She drew on the Force to avoid resting herself. "Tell me about how much you despite the Jedi Code."

Time narrowed down to minutes, to his low coughs and tedium. For the first time, truly, she feared for his life.

A voice whispered, a cowardly voice piped up with optimism: 'maybe he'll get better!' But another one, heavier and smarter, quickly spoke over it, 'Or he'll be dead in two days, and you'll be left with a corpse.'

No. No.

She would not allow that.

All the more she would talk to him, poke at him, downright (yes, _now_ she was) harassing him and trying to pry out information. The older voice in her head told her to get as much information as she could, in case he did expire out here with such limited medical facilities. Bastila all but slapped him, and then would watch immediately back away, guilty. No matter if it was a game or not (and it wasn't, no, maybe it was), seemed to not matter at this point. She was helpless. And Revan was uncooperative, all around.

Bastila even tried to smile at him.

Sick, damaged. Something had lapsed in him, and his face was feverish. The softened waxy skin blistered and cracking. When he spoke now, he mumbled of holocrons and Korriban, his Master Kae, of things 'written in blood' and dead apprentices and the Cathar, of someone named 'Squint.' His memories would shiver and distort, and Revan would think she was someone else. Sometimes, he would switch to other tongues, even Mandalorian. There would be orders and threats, pleading; all responses ignored.

Revan told her of what had happened to Serroco and Jebble and Taris. Revan told her of what he had done to the _Testament, _Foerost,and that there was no victory in destroying a surrendered enemy_. _'_They didn't have enough faith in me_.'

Bastila heard every word and syllable.

When his nose bled, she wiped it. When he shivered, she took the blanket from the bed and covered him. When a fever ran through him, Bastila used a damp rag to wipe his face. When he coughed up watery blood, she cleaned it up.

In this moment, the Jedi sentinel could nearly forgive him. This was the punishment; he might face the vengeance the galaxy wished on him after all. There was nothing strong and noble and deserving of fear here. Only a sick man that might be spending the last moments of life in delirium with a woman whose name he could no longer recall.

Somehow, not despite of, but _because_ of this sickened body, Revan resembled again the young Knight that had gone out to save the Republic from the invaders. He had wanted once to protect, and in those mumbled arguments, Bastila heard of once noble goals gone sour and rotten in the war. From the mouth so blistered and lips so cracked, she heard him speak to dead friends he had betrayed or seen murdered or had turned on him.

Once, he had been capable of so _much._

Revan was a good example of how far one could fall. There was always another lesson to be taught, Bastila had been told, no matter where one was. She gave him water slowly so as to not choke him, and asked him more about the war.

He would die soon, she knew. Very soon. She fed him and spoke to him with that knowledge affixed with every motion and word. _Soon._ "What about Serroco?"

Bastila would listen to every word.

Until one hour, she awoke from a light sleep spent curled in a ball next to his outstretched legs to his voice.

His eyes were still a horrid yellow, but were able to focus. "Hello, pup."

"Excuse me?"

"You look like a loyal hound by my side."

But Bastila could nearly smile. He was making sense, somewhat, and that had to be a good sign. "Better?"

"Were you afraid?"

"I said I would protect you."

"Such a good job. What happened to: 'No death, only the Force'?"

The Jedi rediscovered her pride and legs as Revan relearned speech. "If we are to die here, then so be it."

"I suddenly have lost all faith in you being my keeper."

"Does that mean you _did_ have faith in me?" She looked at him, wondering if anyone had been so glad to be insulted by Revan.

He was blinking, stupid and slow. "You look younger when you smile."

"Excuse me?"

"Never mind. I was sick."

"Still are." She gave him water, glad for the glasses and mugs onboard so she wouldn't have to share anymore with him.

Eager, he drank, and she felt the slightest discomfort watching him. The way his mouth pursed and for that matter, seeing the uneven growth of hair on his face and scalp. Bastila would have thought that Revan awakening from that feverish state would restore him back to that intimidating creature that had killed a Jedi without hesitation, and then turned his weapon towards her. Yet there definitely seemed to be a dimple set into his pointed chin.

It would be incredibly stupid and dangerous to let her guard down, the Jedi reminded herself. Still, when she heard it, the sound made her do a double-take. Darth Revan:_ hiccupping_.

He looked either embarrassed or ashamed. A frightening Sith Lord had no right to be doing such a thing, they both knew.

It wasn't funny, and it was hilarious.

Bastila couldn't help smiling. Even when she knew she must look away and ignore it.

It tampered off quickly enough, and the Jedi Sentinel was nearly disappointed. Such a human gesture, _another _one. It did help ease her mind to know that was possible from him. He would not be loosened anytime soon, that was not what concerned her so much. For her to chip away at the hold of the dark side, that needed a good crack in his veneer.

That brief bout of illness might have been exactly what he'd needed. Awful though his face still was, perhaps underneath it all he was healthier. Just needed to speak of his past and relive what terrible things he'd done. Perhaps the mumbling had been his own attempt at redemption. One needed to acknowledge what they had done to atone for it.

"There was a bomb onboard," Bastila told him.

"A leftover gift I believe," he said. "From a certain Arkanian whose sales attempt was cut short. The bastard. Right before you got there. How fortuitous."

It might be, too.

"At least we might take a few out with us, should you trigger it if we are found. _Captured_," Revan explained.

_"_We won't get captured."

"If we are, _ah_, what will happen do you think? Parades? Gang rape and then the firing squad? Single combat for the sake of honor? Evisceration? Will they pour molten gold down my throat? Make me long for the days of the war against the Mandalorians? Would let me face that?"

"You are under my protection and I won't let anything happen to you," Bastila promised, looking straight into his eyes.

"Do I have your word, Jedi?

"Yes. I won't let you be tortured and your corpse desecrated. But it won't come to that. You are under my protection, and the Republic would never harm a member of the Jedi Order."

"Such a comforting thought. You'd rather draw this out, Jedi?"

"Are you afraid of facing justice? Of dying?"

"Better to die than face what waist in the dark. Lose now and not face it."

"There's _nothing there, Revan." _

There wasn't. Just another lie from a Sith excuse for the war was all his story was.

He was musing aloud, "It's not that I fear dying. We will die here, I am certain. But I have no urge to suffer, and then have my hacked body paraded about. If we are caught, you put that blaster to my temple and you squeeze."

"Revan."

"Then put it to your own head." As best he could, Revan raised his hand to cut her off her comment. "I say this as a measure of decency. For your sake. Don't let Malak take you; I know what he'd do."

An odd stab at compassion for a butcher. Why?

"For attempting to save me, if in the most idiotic manner possible," he answered, and Bastila had to wonder of their Bond, of her composure and face. "I do repay my debts. And my apprentice is a man that discovered what it means to be a captive after being in the loving hands of the Mandalorians, I'm sure you've heard. He is the one that destroyed Telos, after all."

"Are you saying that you disapproved of that?"

"It was over kill. Yet to not follow through with a threat would have been folly. Better to be feared than mocked." A shrug. "I punished him. He understood what he'd done wrong after he could think clearly, when the pus and the infection cleared up and the prosthetic put into place."

She felt something unpleasant rising through her stomach, dangerous and too lovely: _hope_. "So you did have a problem with what he did?"

"Oh, no, you misunderstand; the destruction was supposed to take place_ later_. As I had told him to tell the Republic."

Revan always prided himself on keeping his word.

Malak had been right to turn on this creature. The real enemy was right here, the one that had, yes, led his fellow Jedi Knight down this path. "You two deserved each other."

"So we told each other late at night when we inevitably found ourselves alone." Something silky and knowing in his voice.

"He was your best friend and apprentice." Not quite a question.

"More than that." Revan looked amused at her confused expression. Laughing at her. "I'm sure you've heard the rumors? Or did the Order try to squash even that bit of information about us?"

"What information?"

His smile was slipping away, back to that bored expressionless. A vacancy so complete that it took her until now to realize what might be partially wrong with it: only his mouth moved when he spoke, the muscles around it not stiff but _soft._ Eyes glazed and half-lidded. Smudged features that half-worked. "Or are you claiming to be so innocent you still don't understand what I'm even talking about?"

"You and Malak."

Him and Malak…? Alone at night. That repugnant smugness.

"Oh."

"Are you surprised at that?"

That put things in a slightly different light, illuminating other certain things. Appalling, and Bastila could remember her fundamental dislike of this man. Anything he touched, he ruined. Every vow they had broken, for their own selfish desire. "When you were still his teacher?"

"There was some overlap."

Bastila had never felt even the mildest pity of Malak until now. The Knight had made his choices, but with this man teaching him and breaking the Code in such a way, the fall might not have been such a surprise. "Of course you'd take advantage of a Padawan like that."

"You think he didn't like it?" Sly, his voice was.

Ugh. How could _anyone_?

—Even _before_ he had become a Sith Lord? How long had he failed to live up to the Jedi Order's expectations?

This was a man who had been the star of the Jedi Order. Entrusted to watch and care for Padawans, to watch out for his fellow Knights. He'd turned against all of them. Learned too much of war fighting the Mandalorians, it was said. Bastila had been told to look at him as an example, of what to do, of what not to do. Learn from him, when he'd gone by a different name. A hundred questions she'd had for her Master when he'd gone off to war, and now there was this new one: was it possible he had _always_ been like this? That he had had only exchanged one mask for another?

Master Zhar and Vrook had such differing views. The old, worn twilek so regretful, remembering the Knight as a gifted student, his failings were all of the Orders. Master Vrook had been so adamant of Revan's flaws, the arrogance always there, warnings scattered through the years. The Jedi Knight had grown hungry for more bloodshed, and those long months spent waiting for their return had been spent preparing the reveal of his true intentions.

How could the Order have not seen Revan for what he'd been?

"Go on: ask your questions. I have no problem discussing that. Not now, and especially not with you. Why keep secrets from each other? I probably said far too much when I had that brief illness."

What could she ask? Why could you do so many evil things? How could you turn against what you swore to protect?

"I do appreciate talking to someone. We are so freed from cliché about threatening each other a bloody death. Too bad you are such a poor conversationalist. But I'll take what I can get."

She peaked at him sideways. "Did _Malak_ not provide stimulating enough conversation?"

"You make fun of him, but we should ask ourselves: how many more people will die now, with Malak in charge of the Sith?"

"If he's so incompetent, perhaps there will be a rebellion."

"Not stupid. He's not _stupid," _Revan corrected. "And less willing to take chances. Case in point: what he did to my ship."

"And Telos."

"That too."

"Do you regret how things went? What you did?"

"Innocent sentient life ended because of our decision, because we could make and carry out such a decision. It wasn't justice. But I don't care about such concepts anymore." He paused. "I_ did_ however. If that brings you any measure of relief.

"Force, it _does_." Revan all but rolled his eyes. "You want to know why I turned to the dark side, to defeat my enemies? It was for others that I did it. Because of others. I was sick of waiting for the Force, for the Council, for others. I didn't want to accept that others would stand by and do nothing, so perhaps I overcompensated.

"Kill this one, destroy this one, sacrifice this world. The deaths that came with those calculations. You might not believe me, but I did go out there to stop the Mandalorians. I was a Jedi Knight, doing his duty. There was still 'good' in me, if you will. It was a struggle, to balance the two. To constantly perform the calculus of lives and weighing advantages, all the while having to fear being too close or too distant.

"I grew tired. Why continue with such lies of what I was doing?"

Bastila nearly wanted to write this monologue down. A first. If only they were on Coruscant, at the Temple, and this listened to by Masters that could offer up advice as to how to handle a reply.

A different man had seemingly awoken, bloodier and tired, but saner. This was someone that could not be trusted, but listened to and speak with.

"Mercy and weighting your actions are not lies, Revan."

"That's 'Darth Revan,' Padawan. At least I got away from them, and the ranks that try to use against us. You, though, you still want them to pat your head and say good job."

But there had been more in his feverish whispers and even his orders spoke of something more…_gallant _in Revan. Before he'd become such a traitor that had lost his way. He must have cared so deeply, if long ago, that he'd begun to avoid dealing with such heavy losses.

No matter how he carried on with bloating his ego further. Blathering on about his accomplishments and ignoring her. "So afraid of war unless it involved them…yet battle must be fought to strengthen the foundation of civilization. Someone must win as well. And it was Revan."

"You sound utterly mad when you talk about yourself in the third-person. That absurd name. It's not even your real name."

_Revanchist. _

There was so much darkness implied in that name. What type of man would take on that title?

So serene. "Who's to say I haven't gone mad?"

Bastila went still.

"It _is_ said I my lost mind the year after the Mandalorian war. That year I spent beyond the boundary of Republic space. Did I wander so far? For what? What did I find out there? My own insanity?" His eyes remained watchful, even while his lips twisted upward. "Or sanity, rather. My freedom? So loosed of the Jedi shackles and then the Republics. You should try it sometime. Find yourself so far from the Jedi that their words no longer have a pull on you. I suppose you have, now, but it's not quite the same."

There was some clarity, but it was still Revan the Butcher she was facing. "Yes, you did discover what you were on the edges of the galaxy, didn't you?"

"All those titles and names…but I am my own person. They are just roles I used to get what I needed."

"Not the entire time. I don't know what you faced in the Outer Rim, but you were a Jedi."

"_Are_ you trying to convert me back?"

"Once you were the youngest Knight of our generation. You did care, and that's why you went to war, wasn't it? There must still be some flicker of light in you."

"You think you're the first to try and 'help' me? Redeem me? Save your energy. I am not your project."

"But I'm still going to try."

"Or maybe I'd convert you." Those unsettling eyes finally crinkled when he smiled. "You _could_ let me go. Join me, inasmuch as that is possible out here."

Bastila didn't need a second to refute that. "You didn't even say please."

"Has that never occurred to you? We are here, alone, with no one to judge you. Perhaps with your powers amplified with both side of the Force, we might be able to reach someone else?" That flickering smile. "I have thought about capturing you more than once. Your talents turned against the Republic would be marvelous to witness."

"I suppose that's a compliment."

"We'd have such an Empire together, with you at my side. All we could do together. I could even thank you for your obedience in several different ways. Whether you untied me or not."

She stared. "What?"

"So young. So naïve."

"What are you talking about? I should use my talents to help the Sith then?"

"In particular, use them with me. Though I wouldn't hold it against you too much if you had an eye on another Dark Jedi. Is it Malak? Because he's so tall? That handsome holonet hero look, complete with the square ja—oh, _yes, never mind._ He wouldn't be as much fun though, never was to be honest. You two are both too earnest and straightforward."

Was he saying that she had some disgusting crush on—on _Malak_? Why? How? Bastila was left staring at him, mouth open. "…what?"

Revan's was grotesquely warm. "Tell me more about your 'talents'?"

She just blinked at him, unsettled.

A long awkward moment passed before Revan finally continued with his point: "Are you truly this daft?"

"What exactly are you hinting of?"

"You really did not leave the Temple much, did you? What a waste of a charming, if controlling and attractive Jedi."

Charming? _Attractive_? What was—_oh_.

No.

_No, thank you._

Bastila knew immediately that she shouldn't be physically, literally, backing away from him. At the least, it only made things more awkward, and must only give him more ammunition. Yet nothing logical could help the sick thrill going through her. She wanted the bucket right now, to vomit into. Run into the bathroom, all dignity gone, to shower a thousand times. "You were not referring to my Battle Meditation."

"No. But I _was_ joking: you're not charming."

"Were you really—" All but recoiling.

"More _neurotic_ than anything." Revan cocked his head, studying her. "But there is some appeal to that."

She wanted to cover herself with a blanket. Kick him and then run away. Even fully dressed, she could feel exposed under those gleaming eyes. Revan, hinting towards what she could only imagine. Even the soldiers, whom she had been so warned about by a discreet Jedi Knight, had shown her far more respect. Nothing more than obsequious, and polite by comparison. Courteous men and women that treated her with a certain deference, if anything.

"Still your wild, girlish heart, Shan. You don't have to sleep with a lightsaber under your pillow to keep me off you."

Shudders after shudders. "Yes. Thankfully you are restrained."

"Oh, it's not that. You'll find my scoundrel appearance and devil-may-care attitude quite appealing soon enough. So go head and fight it; it would be boring if you just gave in."

"I _would never_—"

"Tell me more about how bad I am and how I can make up for it." His Adam's apple a bulge as he looked up.

She retreated backwards another foot. "I liked you better when you were mumbling feverish nonsense."

That made his smile shrink, just a little. Then it rebounded. "Yes, I'm sure you did like me helpless. Are you this controlling in all matters, or just when it comes to sexual conquests?"

This was going to be a long journey.

Especially with _that_ now lying between them as a decomposing body might. A joking preposition. Grotesque, Revan's appearance became again, anew. Every time he opened his mouth, Bastila learned something new and awful about him. All these new grotesque angles to gape at.

Bastila had faced similar jests and hints before, requests and polite gestures from those she served with. Briefly. Once or twice, yes. Well. Inasmuch as far as she could measure, given her own limited experience with such things. Perhaps even those had been misunderstandings on her own part, and they had truly been earnest and she had been too cold in her dismissal of sharing meals and answering questions.

Other Jedi had never— there were_ dalliances_ among the apprentices, but no one had ever approached her; they had known better than to expect Bastila Shan to ever agree to such a thing. But after having left their company had she become more aware of such things.

Only once she had left the Enclave had she been approached in such a way.

She was young and considered pretty enough ('_charming, if controlling and attractive_') for those to stare at her and wonder. If that had indeed been what had happened. Miscommunications, perhaps. Some had been simply curious, and others polite and inquisitive; all dismissed with varying politeness. No, Bastila did not want to 'go out for drinks after this shift' and would not speak about her family or where she was from or answer any questions about personal matters.

Especially not ones from reporters that wanted to ask if she had a beau, if there was another truth to the rumors of Jedi celibacy, was she aware of a certain rumor (asked with such a disgusting smile) involving how she planned to convince Revan the Butcher and Malak to turn from their mad reign of terror—no, Bastila would not think about that anymore.

No, surely they hadn't meant…no. No.

Yet, as uncomfortable as all those other time before, none certainly had been so obvious about it as Revan, and none had disgusted her as much as his jokes.

From now on, every word and look took on a new, frightening significance.

No—Bastila would not falter. He had just been trying to scare her and it would not work. Revan could not have such feelings. Look at that face, no way would anyone agree to such a dalliance with that man. He had just tried to see her flinch, and Bastila had shamefully given him what he'd wanted in that regard.

Again, with the bucket and trying to look away. Pretend someone else was doing this, handling him in such a way. A nurse, she had healed people on the battlefield, and Bastila wished she were back there, with soldiers that depended on her. Fighting for the Republic. Anywhere, truly, but here.

With Revan watching her every reaction. Making terrible comments that they both knew were absurd and meant only to wound her in whatever way Revan could. He tried to act like he really wasn't ashamed of all this, and actually relished this attention. That it wasn't mortifying for both of them. Like Bastila might be _enjoying _this contact.

Perhaps it was whatever Bond might have been formed that gave him such insight into her feelings–or else Bastila had been still making a disgusted expression.

"Normally," Revan elucidated, "I don't find myself preoccupied by such things, but we are Bonded."

Through the hair falling into her eyes, Bastila stared. "What are you talking about?"

"Besides that, this could be our last few days before we join the Force. A little excitement isn't uncommon."

"We aren't going—"

"We'll die terrible deaths. If Malak gets us, or the Empire. Angry Republic soldiers. What they would do to us. A mob."

Is that what he thought? Feared? Nothing would cheer her more than to see Republic ships that would pick up her transmitting signal. If it was a Sith ship…she still wasn't sure what to do then. Revan could not be handed over back to them. Perhaps he wouldn't be reinstated as the Supreme Grand Master of the Sith or whatever grandiose title he referred to himself as, but would be tortured by them for failing. He was under her protection, for better or worse.

Nice, comforting, to see that he did have fears as any other mortal.

Until the Sith continued, "With such high stakes, why not _appreciate_ the others company?"

She would not let him get under her skin (or clothes), and thus would not be sick in front of him. "I will never allow myself to give into such feelings."

"Does that mean you have feelings then?"

"No, yes—not in that way. Stop smiling! _I am not_ _attracted to you, Revan_." The very fact that her mouth had to form such words was a wound that could never be healed. "And no one will harm you while I am around."

"Or, rather, both of us will be strung up. I am the worst traitor. Followed by you."

"_Me_!?"

"You _spared_ the worst traitor. Also, you've touched my penis."

Bastila stood up and walked away. Locked herself in the refresher for three hours by her chrono's account, though it felt much shorter. There, she rediscovered calming pace and how much better one felt after washing their face (and hands, again and again she scrubbed them) at least. Only after finally growing sick, not of his wails but of the eerie silence that had followed them, did she come out. You could nearly hear the cogs turning in his head as he plotted.

"Are you ready to be a man again? Or do you insist on acting like a little boy?"

"Oh, I am a _man_. Aren't I?" His hideous face so alight with sadistic cheer. Lines drawn into his face with that smirk, Force, even with all her training Bastila hated that smirk. Even from a distance, if you didn't know him and what he was, that smile should have sent others running away. "You should probably tuck it away. For your own sake."

She tried not to flinch. He wouldn't eat her alive—no, he would just make her uncomfortable. That was the worst he could do. Yes, she would cover him up and spare herself the sight.

A twitch.

Not enough oxygen. On any planet.

On_ purpose_ he'd done that.

Eye contact made her head erupt in flames. He was not the first person she had seen naked, but it had been very different from this. There had been no sexual context then, and it had been solely for the purposes of healing injuries, anatomical studied—and she can nearly hear Revan making a joke about that. She inhaled, sniffed, and went back briefly to being a nurse.

"Like I said, normally I don't care. Maybe it's the brain damage."

"'Care'? Is that what it is?"

Talking about caring with Revan. This is what her world had become. What a strange twist. Perhaps he was still sick.

Or she was. Her own fevered dream.

"We seem to be having miscommunications entomology in nature."

"How so?"

"Love and desire can be different."

"It's still passion."

It still led to the dark side. Attachments that took over another. Bastila had read about such things. Failing from previous Jedi, and how their own loves had doomed them.

"Truly? What of Masters and their apprentices? Did you not love your teachers? Do the students not love each other as well?"

"Did you?"

Had he loved his teachers, and still turned against them. What of his first, of Master Kae? The exiled Jedi Master that had trained Revan Bastila so rarely heard of her anymore. Died, in the Mandalorian war. She had been a historian, a talented seeker of some sort and if her name was spoken of again, it was in a whisper.

"So many secrets in the Enclave. Of Masters and apprentices. Do you want to hear of me and Malak? That will give us something to talk about."

"I don't want to hear about your exploits with Malak." Such a thing might really make her reach for a weapon. To use on herself, as she wasn't so foregone as to hurt Revan. Yet.

"Later, then." He leaned back, away. Eyes closing. "A child she has. My old Master. Did you know that?"

"Who? _Kae_? The _Jedi Master_ Kae?"

"See? Isn't this a nicer chance from glaring at each other? You're a quick study, Shan. We are two sentient beings that need distraction, no?" He cracked one eye open. There were striations of gold and amber in those eyes. "I do hope we'll become closer in the coming days.

Bastila was able to hold back the shudder, but not the grimacing. Simply to discomfort her, Revan did this.

"I never wanted to screw you before this. Well. Maybe some morbid curiosity. After you joined me, we would have done that, I suspect."

"I have a whole new reason for adhering to the light side now." Her voice was curiously flat. Perhaps her own aneurism was coming.

"You seemed like someone that really has a lot of pent up energy. Malak would have enjoyed—"

"Stop right there."

"At least he would have liked watching us. Then joining in after getting all jealous."

The _images._ Like a punch to the stomach. How could she exist in a galaxy were such things were uttered? There was no passion, no death, but there were unspeakable horrors. Two thousand showers Bastila needed. "_I mean it_. I will get the gag."

"Yes, Master." Revan did not mean that title as one of respect.

Bastila huffed, turning away. For a solid ten minutes they looked into their respective air, and tried not to wonder how much oxygen was left.

"They spoke of what you did out there. Rumors."

It was what they wanted to believe. Complete dissolution of Jedi control.

"Murder and insanity, suicides, mass orgies, death pacts and torture, a lot of that." His tone so dry.

Yet, not unkindly, she got up to find a rag to dab at the dried blood on his forehead. At least diminish the signs of what they'd been through. Make everything neat. He might even be grateful, and stop speaking. "Are you saying they were right?"

"Less lurid than you think. After a while it could all be reduced to insertion of one thing into another. All of it."

"Even the death pacts?"

"Wanting to insert a blade or poison or the ground to your head is close enough. All of it just depends on who's doing the inserting."

"I see. Perhaps I did miss a grand opportunity by not following you to war."

"It was fun." Revan sounded serene, unmistakably content.

A nurse cleaning at a wound, that was all. One that did not have to like her patient. "You are a disgusting failure of a man."

"Failure? Enough of that self-pity. Crying as you burn another village you don't even know the name of because someone might judge you? Pathetic. Half the combat training at the Enclave was just to teach us not to flinch when we attacked the enemy. Using those skills on Mandalorians? It was fun. Liberating. Never let anyone tell you otherwise." Revan didn't blink at whatever expression was on her face. "You would have liked it. Losing your control over so much and then finding it in the smallest of things. No one came back for a reason, Shan."

Her pulse beat in her ears. "They were having _too much fun_?"

"Yes. Like kids at the circus. Ever go to one of those? Sure, someone might throw up, but that's the price of admission."

All lies.

There was evidence otherwise, after all. "Tell that to the Exile."

It triggered something, a flicker of muscle twitching under her hand covered by the musty rag. "You're lucky the Exile wasn't not the one you grabbed. What a self-absorbed fool my general was."

Then Revan went silent, to brood.

Later, a day maybe, Revan expanded on that and would go on and on about the Exile. But finally, he did continue to speak of his general, so gone years ago. A trigger for him, some exposed nerves that he did have after all.

_After_ had been a long stretch of time, of silences and watching each other, trying not to argue with him, to flinch away from his stares. Meditate and watch the walls and hear his breaths.

Revan would rant, even while she cared for him.

The deep voice lifted, accent shifting. "'Oh, look at me, so above the fray, so full of angst over what I did, how could I?' Half-Jedi. All idiot. You think my general didn't know what was to happen?"

"What happened to the exile was tragic. Wasn't the general your friend? Your_ loyal_ general?"

"But only helpful to a point."

Hair brown, but tinted a richer red than her own, wavy but dense. Mosslike. Stubble finally appearing, and she could count the black dots. Mouth colorless but full. Having to brush this man's teeth. "I feel like a whole new Sith Lord. Thank you."

"The Exile…?"

"That the exile gave up and wanted to do back home was tragic. You tell me I'm sick for treating it like a game? I'm the cold monster? What about those that were never there yet continue judging what happened? What does that make him for returning home like it never happened? Like it was temporary insanity and not discovering a secret of the galaxy."

"What secret?"

"You have to learn it on your own to understand. Maybe you will, when we get closer to the end."

She bit her tongue. Let it go. "You're not saying it was worth it."

"I don't understand that sentiment."

"At least, think of those that died after you turned against the Republic. And Kae died. Your master."

"Like a mother."

"You said she _was_ a mother."

"Did I? They kept certain things hushed. Her own exile, or rather, when she chose to leave."

"Because of having a child? Some sort of disillusionment?"

"Yes. She could forgive either but not both."

"Who?"

"When they forgave her for what they felt were failing and still rejecting her truth. Ultimately, she had to leave."

"I don't understand."

"What she gave up, what she felt she had tainted, it deserved punishment. But not by them. What did they know? Have they ever fought, fallen in love? Yet, who else could she turn to for hatred? It can be a very peaceful experience, in its own way. You know where you stand.

"They didn't though, punish her. So that only made it worse to live with herself after what rules she'd broken. Forgiveness can be a harsh bald. It meant she might have to forgive herself, and that Kae could not do."

"Why not?"

"She hated do-overs, my Master. Better to always regret and cling to that."

"Why would anyone want that?"

A shrug. "It might mean actually facing and owning up to what she did. Mercy and forgiveness can be more dangerous than anything else. The Jedi are right about that. You see, if she forgave, absolved, herself, she might have to make amends. What her child forgive her? That was the question she refused to asked, maybe the only one. Poor Kae, it was so obvious, and that only made her hate it more.

"She and Alek were more alike than they realized. All that metaphysics and maudlin narcissism. Making pain something more meaningful than rancor shit."

Charming, the way he had with words. A great orator for their generation.

"Going on about names as even I didn't. Me, I'd prefer tangibles than abstract logic. That gets you sitting in libraries and when you look up from that datapad, what do you find? Your lover running off to fight a war. Too bad you never got to ask Atris about that. Like to imagine that conversation."

None of that could be believed. He was only toying with her, to distract himself from his own discomfort and failure. But Bastila could play along, wait him out until there was an end to stories and fables. "Who did she have a child with?"

"You wouldn't know him. I never got it. He was too exotic for her. Straightforward, exasperatingly so. Opposites attract, yes? We understood each other, though, and how dangerous we were, even if we never fought until the end."

"End?"

"I killed him. I would say that was the end. A year ago? No. More. It runs together, this war."

How many similar stories ended the same for him?

"Do I get a cracker now?"

"Is the child…?"

"Alive? For now. You could say that about a few people."

"You could be lying."

He would make her suspicious, questioning of everything she knew of the Order, if he could.

"Yeah, maybe I'm making this whole thing up. I did hit my head pretty hard and my memories aren't what they used to be. Was _Kae_ my first master? Were _you_ one of the Padawans that slid dopey love letters under my door?"

"_Never_."

"We'll never know." Voice saccharine.

"If you're not lying, then explain why she felt if she was no longer a Jedi. To ask forgiveness is to be a Jedi."

"Tell me, what will you say if we survive this, and you're brought before the Council? Oh, no, we definitely remained chaste and I'm still a good little Jedi. Please let me become a Knight now."

"We _have_—remained chaste."

A little boy grin. "Give it a week. When things get rough."

Heartbeats and breaths and neurons firing, all this happening, the conscious awareness of them. A week. Force help her if they were here for that long. Long enough for her to somehow find him attractive enough to forget her vows. How could a psychotic maniac look_ better_ after seven more days of being chained up? How bad could _she_ be, to agree to his claims of possessing 'debonair charm'? How could he think that of her?

"I will never do that, Revan."

"I have seen what people do when things get _rough_."

Curious, how numb her face felt. "What are you saying? That we will have some clandestine affair I'll be so eaten alive with shame that I'd leave the Order than face being judged?"

That they would ever survive this?

"You said it, not me."

Bastila all but shoved a broken stale cracker into his mouth, half-hoping he would choke. "I'm not so filled with loathing, Revan."

With his head cocked and one cheek filled, Revan looked nearly amusing. "That you'd leave?"

"That I'd let myself be seduced by you."

"Who's doing the seducing?" He waved a hand. "I'm the one tied up."

Yes. And that's where you will remain.

Until—until someone comes for us. Someone will find us. Or we'll find them. Another few days. Just give it another few more days.

I can live with Revan for that long.


	2. Chapter 2

Okay, I was wrong folks. I thought I could post the middle of the story in just one chapter, but it was way too unwieldy for that, and ended up way too much. So now I'm going to break it up into five parts.

CrypticCondor007, I wouldn't take everything Revan says as the pure truth of what happened. Or that any of that happened at all, and he's not just messing with Bastila's mind (or if her POV is even entirely accurate). I tried to incorporate the K2 version of Revan, btw, which tends to show a darker side of the Sith according to HK and Atton. Also, I didn't want to skip how traumatic this whole mess might be for Revan and Bastila so I wanted to overly describe everything.

And thanks, everyone, for the comments and kudos and favoriting, and just for reading through all of this.

* * *

><p><em>You don't know I sing these songs about you<em>

_You don't know the pseudonyms I assume_

_You don't know the pseudonyms I assume for you_

_Are you happier now that the gods are dying_

_Or do you dream of Heston with omniscient fear?_

_You should be happier now with no one to pray to_

_Or would I love to break your knees from beggin' and prayin'_

_Bite hard, well, it's a broken smile_

_Breaking their hearts and breaking their minds_

_Bite hard, well, it's a 505_

_Your engine's alive, we ride together_

_Bite hard, bite hard_

_I may be lonelier now but I'm happy alone, honest_

_I ain't lonely alone but what would we talk about anyway?_

_No, I'd never resort to kissing your photo, honest_

_I just had to see how the chemicals taste now, honey_

- Bite Hard, Franz Ferdinand

* * *

><p>He was helpless before her. For her will and use. And how well she knew of that fact.<p>

It was something that pleased her, to know that she had Revan at her mercy. She had cared and wanted him to live. For this. A hungry mouth swallowed him up, again and again. Saw it before he could feel it, imagined it. Being taken into that warmth. Familiar and still new, and her still desperate for him, to please him. For him, for him, she did this. Ropy threads and her eyes closed and his spine hurt and—

And.

He came awake from the sound emitted from his throat and the staccato sound of his boots drumming against the ground. Notice his moaning even as he tried to stop it. Cease right now. Uh.

Ugh.

_Uh._

His eyes hurt and pulsed in their sockets. Revan felt anything that strong, not in such an obvious sexual way. Could literally not remember the last time he'd gone through those motions that passed as a facsimile for sex. Let alone masturbated. All of that mess. Lifeless and rubbery they had been, and Revan clung to those memories to oppose the speed of his heart and the fireworks still sparking in his eyes.

Never had he been aggravated by an orgasm.

She would see his reaction. Take notice, and make some comment. Be even more insufferable. More fluids on his clothes, besides the dried blood.

Well.

_This_ was a new turn of events.

He had never been properly tortured before. Only heard of it from Alek, from Kae, from countless people that had faced the Mandalorians. On Malachor, the Academy there he'd helped rebuild, he had been on the other end of the knife. The one to make jokes of the laws of physics and physiology. Only intellectually Revan had understood how people could be broken so. No one was better at sticking in the blade than him. Training others for the same, part of his gift for encouraging the best from people.

He had some low moments as well, in his life, that was true. A few anyway. Fighting the Council for control, on Cather, on Dxun when he'd experienced his first bright filament of fear for the first time in his young life, finding Malachor and the swelling disgust the first few endless weeks of learning what a person could do if they wanted, if they were freed.

But, no. All paled before this pit.

_This_ was now officially the lowest Revan had ever been.

Here was the torture he had ducked out on.

Justice. It was just as Bastila proclaimed with a might nod, before thinking on it and realizing she'd been again the butt of a joke. Then scramble to heal her hurt self-esteem and warped sense of worth, justice, _yes_, that just showed how his thought process was so flawed and he should be grateful for this chance to redeem himself.

A huff. _No more than you deserve, Revan._

_You?_

At least he wasn't thinking about his failure, about what waited out there in the dark for him to falter, about Malak and the worse excuses for Sith that remained. About what it had felt to be so wounded, to have another in his head and that awful assault. About what it was like to be without his powers, any of them, helpless as a child.

Force, but he despised her. All of Bastila Shan. There would be nothing sweeter than wrapping his hands around her throat and squeezing, seeing the fear rise in her eyes, the flush as she fought back. Finally, Revan would beat this weak Jedi that had flapped around him for so long, this thorn in his side, the last gasping comeback from the Republic and the Order. Break and ruin her and leave only the barest hint of life in her, to savor, before he broke her neck. That was his most relished dream, and one he clung to.

That had been his most relished dream. Once. Days ago.

Until he realized how pathetic that was.

Until his anger was not a single harsh layer that made him see red, and he was capable of speaking to her without threats. Until he looked forward to hearing her, in those long nights when he couldn't sleep. Until he understood how he depended on her compassion, and saw her pity and how she tried to do what was right. Until—_this._

Now he had a new pathetic dream.

The jokes he'd made at her expense came back to haunt him. When he'd watched her, to make her uncomfortable, now only made him uneasy.

Was I being serious? Was that a joke?

Revan admired his domain again. His tomb. If they were ever found, it would be told to the apprentices as a grisly ironic tale. A life lesson. They died_ together_. She had done her duty, that bright Padawan, only a Padawan so you have no excuses not to do the same and give your life up. Do you see, you can never fall to the dark side and almost must keep yourself restrained and lesser because of it.

This was the place he would die and, and yet had been saved in. Free, freed of one cage he'd been in for years, while simultaneously trapped in so many ways.

No, Bastila would not loosen the restraints that sunk into his skin and bruised what was already hurt. And he would never be able to finally silence that never-ceasing mouth of hers. And most definitely, she would not do what had happened in that absurd dream.

Revan inspected the bars, and his captor.

Of all people—

Tied up and defeated by a Padawan. That was the most indignant part, the thing that stung the most. A girl not yet mature enough to even be a Knight, to train others, to be anything more than a pawn—and she had been the one to _capture him_. Malak had turned on him, and Revan had deserved all he got for turning his back and being so unprepared, but by his _apprentice's _hand. His equal. Better. Not some teenager, a half-adult that got lucky at the right moment. Some student with one little gift at, what_, encouraging_ others. Compared to all what Revan was capable of? Her. Caught by _her_. Lost to Bastila Shan, even after hitting his head as he had, that was just _pathetic_.

A Padawan, not even a Knight, was his capturer. This was to whom he would spend the last days of his life with? Having to listen to her, curse and insult her in another language, only to have it turn out she knew it already and could understand enough to know what he was saying—even giving some back. She would turn on her heel, and get right next to him, to ask, to demand answers from him, to make all sorts of retorts to his comments. 'How would you like it if I treated you the same—'

'As though you _could_.'

An angry sniff—no one could inhale with so much fury as Bastila could. Brief treasured silence. Then she would snap and just have to make some comment on that.

If he was loosed, there were so many things he'd do to her. Show her what he'd taught those other Jedi. _Yes. _Or just wrap these chains around her throat, pull backwards and watch the spray of blood from the artery, the pulse. Pull her nice and close and sink his teeth into her skin, become an animal. Lick that pulse point beneath her earlobe. Smell her hair.

_Force. _

He would not allow those thoughts the dignity of lingering in his mind. As a boy, he'd learned and developed the ability to hone his mind, something that had lapsed as the years passed and he clung to his own sanity with blistered fingers. Unwanted thoughts and fantasies might plague him, but not like_ this_. His mind was his own and full of ghosts, those he conversed with endlessly, and those ghosts did not berate then crawl into his lap and smile at him.

Revan would not have it, he would_ not_.

_You have no choice. _

But I do, there is always a choice, one can always fight.

Slide the blade in. Peel her clothes off. Humiliate her as before he'd despised others for doing. If you do this, Padawan, I'll let you live. Better, yes. Only, she would never do that, and that drove under his skin, made him grit his teeth. If she did, it would be mocking, and there was something pleasurable about that, her going _along with him_. You would do that with me, to make me happy? Shake her, break her into so many pieces, throw her around the cabin, see the fear on her face, if you will not join me you will be broken. _Want me._ Hold her. Godsdamnit.

I have no choice.

Out there, in that black oblivion, he had been perilously close to something. A thing that would remove his separate being, his self, and take over. The greatest horror of being a puppet—as the Mandalore had. A secret thing that Malak would never speak of. He had escaped that, only to be led into a snare so clumsy it could not work, he denied that it had caught him even as he fell for the true trap.

(Revan _had_ escaped that place, hadn't he? What if this was all another nightmare that stretched out and he would not wake up from, no matter how hard he tried?)

He inspected himself again.

This awkward jutting thing there that confirmed that his body had turned traitor. The legs turned to twitching sources of agony as nails were driven into his feet. A constant ache in his back and his wrists still bore cuts. His face was a swollen mystery to him. His boots scuffed and marked when before they'd been so shined.

Revan heard the discordant note before his eyes found her.

Her. Bastila broke all established reality. His own thoughts and reactions could not be trusted around her. All of the boundaries had been so violated, and she wondered why he hated and lusted for her. How could she act as though meaning hadn't been destroyed? Her presence spread across all three dimensions, and Revan struggled to recall every meeting across a battlefield, any shared classroom, all mentions of her name, his own brief study of her as she slept and dreamed. The abject.

Revan had never quite got the appeal of that one, the supposed One that complete the Self. The desire to lose oneself in another. Or even something as minor as enjoying women say,_ necessarily_, over men. Preferring one humanoid form to another. Harsh lines compared to softened curves. The shape of a face that twisted something inside was a fact that he had only heard about in literature. Revan had seen plenty of naked bodies, dead or alive, and they held no more secrets from him. Some of those naked had been women too (and alive), and they had been ones considered more _conceptually _attractive than Shan. Aesthetically speaking. Quieter too and better trained. All he wanted from them at any time, should he have been tempted. What could Bastila even offer _him_?

Yet.

There was the knife's edge that slid between his ribs and indeed, pierced the heart, and its name was a denial, an excuse, a question: Y_et_.

There she was. Sleeping and something stirred in him because of that. Just like when she frowned, or (and it occurred so rarely) smiled at him. It had crept up on him, more cunning than any assassin, twice as deadly as any poison, as mortally wounding as a disease.

There was a twist at the blankly exciting exposed leg. Alright. Those loose pants would have to be mocked in the morning, a show for me, hm? Until he couldn't look away, not even when he realized he was staring. No, more than staring, stares could mean so many things and this was something pointed; he had been _admiring_. Muscled but thin, a fighter but one that was strained and reduced from stress and soon, a lack of nutrition. Olive tinted skin turned pale. Her small calf with a scar on the ankle. That firm flare of her arse, her flat stomach and the trail of her legs. Travel up the curve to her face. Young and idiotic, not yet cynical and not even drooling this time. Sleeping peacefully, and Revan didn't know whether he wanted to wake her violently, or let her sleep. Given his condition, there were limitations to take into account, though he could yell, or hiss, or sing and watch her eyes flutter awake. Watch her reaction.

Was that it? Her passion for control? That scowling face with delicate features that were so fragile, annoyingly so. That upturned button nose that twisted, with the sunken bridge, her damn _nose_. Full dark pink mouth, Iridonian roses, pouting and it embarrassed Revan, the very existence and notice of that part of her face. Safer ground in that rounded jawline and round small chin. Conventionally attractive. Eyes that shade he couldn't determine was gray or blue because he couldn't stand to look at them that closely for so long. _Cute_, in some way that Revan was perplexed to determine. Fumble with descriptions in a way that was worrying. Pleasantly shaped, muscled, high cheeks—so what? Ridiculous hair, russet shaded to auburn. All complexly pinned and Revan had lost literally hours from what remained of his life trying to figure out how she styled it.

Not _exotic._ Just a human girl prone to bouts of self-righteousness. Not like the dancers, of Twilek and human and etc., offered up, the Dark Jedi, soldiers, fighters of varying genders, all wanting him. A half-grown schoolgirl like Shan should never have gotten a second glance.

Bastila would have taken his hand off if he tried to so much as poke at her. Or cut something else off.

Yet Revan still wanted to try it.

Was_ that_ it? Her obvious dislike. Unimpressed. That she didn't bow before him? Their arguments that left them both winded and Revan had never despised someone so much, with her sneers and refusals that left him grinning when he didn't want to because of her galling pride and confidence. The way she went about things, so uptight and insisting she was in control of everything. Even as they literally floated along helpless, Bastila insisted on finding order and demanding they both learn something from this experience. Recite the Code again, ignore Revan telling her of the dark side, perhaps while sweeping and making tea, then lose her calm finally and begin lecturing him right back on all his flaws. Lapse into furious silence, both of them would, and that was what passed for peace between them. Boredom finally an outlet by asking one question or another, (there was some curiosity about his life and choices, whether or not she would admit to it) and then hopelessly, the conversation would tangle. Talk over and around each other, knowing it, and unable to stop.

Swallow, dry-mouthed. So tired of circling around each other. Over-defensive even when denying that the other might have any point. Lapse into bitter silence. But when you began to speak again, it wasn't agreeing for the sake of peace, oh no, you could not stand to be wrong. Why don't you give up!? Because_ you_ won't. Damned both of them were. Justice, indeed.

He did not hate her, somehow. Not entirely. That might be the most confusing thing for him. Revan did not despise her, she did not stir that wrath he'd discovered early in his first war, and he understood that despite their fights, Bastila was not his enemy. Instead, the Revanchist wanted to probe and talk about her parents and teachers, if she remembered a certain lesson, why did she wear those certain robes, anything and everything. Tell him everything, even as he winced and cringed away from the sound of his own voice that might be cajoling or pathetic.

Once, not long ago, Revan had even wanted this. Had practically begged for the chance to meet her. To murder, or better yet, to speak to. That's all it might take. She would not be the first or last Jedi that he'd broken and turned. He had even studied the Republic's patterns, and wondered if they would send Bastila Shan closer to the front lines for the next battle. If the Republic gave him the chance to greet their new little weapon, he would gladly take it, and _had_.

Imagine if he had been so lucky.

Finally, he pulled his eyes upward to explore the low ceiling.

If Revan had stolen her away, had ever kidnapped her, she would fight every inch and refuse to turn until the last minute, when she gave in and went crazy and tried to kill him. Seduce her using all his cunning and will power until they were naked in his room, only to have her pull out a weapon from_ nowhere_ and stab him in the face the first chance Bastila got. Torture and break her, only it seemed that she could hold up for longer than he would have thought, only to weaken at the last minute at her sorrow in a lapse of judgment—then get stabbed in the face by his own weapon. Give up everything when facing her, go back all the way back to his flagship, _I surrender!—_ then Malak would turn on him at that exact second as Bastila lowered her weapon so Revan would fall headfirst onto her blade.

She was his doom.

But still, Bastila in black robes…

No, no, imagine what she'd do to the others, fetching in dark colors that would lend the color of her eyes a certain dusky appeal or not. If she had followed him to war, her throwing her head back her and cackling as she discovered Force lightning and taking Revan out as soon as he turned his back. If she had ever met Kae and witnessed those lessons. His 'protocol' droids. So much of it would be met with her disapproval, 'Is that it, Revan, some rusty droids and a few holocrons?'

'No!' Revan would refute, steamed, a rising unhelpful heat baking his ears. Then introduce her to his other toys. He had so many now.

Guards draped in red and blacks. Old machinery and droids meant to kill Jedi specifically. The assassins that would have to be called in to take her down after Bastila lost it and began attacking the Star Forge, oh, it was all feigned of course. Yes, the Sith Lord would fall for it. A lie, except she would look up splattered in blood and realize she had indeed fallen. While Revan watched and applauded and then perhaps found an escape route as she noticed him there and knew damn well that he was probably to blame for all of this. Games they could play together that spanned the galaxy. Hell, they had been playing a more sophisticated game of Chase for the last few months anyway.

He on one side, and she on the other, fighting using their soldiers as pawns to slap and fight one another. Until finally they met, face-to-face, and that was then Malak decided to screw him over. His apprentice really had learned from the best. You could almost be proud of him for that. Still, if Revan could have, he would have taken Bastila Shan as his new student. After decapitating Malak, of course.

Introduce her to so much, and watch her wreck and ridicule all of it. Unleash the passions and then run away as she decided to be the best Sith Lord _ever_. Kill her Master? She would not let the Empire down. A hundred and ten percent Bastila gave everything. Perfectionist. Look down at his grisly remains after hearing him call her a moron. 'But Master, you said the apprentice rose to become the leader?'

Last breathe wasted on her to inform her that usually happened after the master had actually taught the apprentice for longer than five minutes.

What type of person invited their own doom to come closer? Poke at disaster as Revan never had before. Sith Lords did not allow such ridiculousness. He had been nearly as confused as HK-47 during a particular failed assassination. The warning about attachment and love had never bothered him about the Order, even.

He had narrowed down his own Empire, the Master and Apprentice, but that was with steady deliberation and consideration. For the Greater, that decision had been made. That was the closest thing to choosing to share a life with another as Revan had ever reached.

This was…self-destruction of the most selfish and bewildering kind.

Were these feelings even his own? What if they were nothing more than hers, twisted and pushed onto him? Was that better or worse, for Shan to have such control over his very thoughts? Was there any difference? Could someone really claim that Bastila _really _was secretly drawn and obsessed with him, wanted him, enjoyed his attentions and wanted him as much as he did her? Was that _so_ much to ask?

If he looked into her eyes for too long, Revan might be sucked in. His senses—his soul, to be so dramatic—sucked out. What would she be like as a lover?

Frightening.

—needy, demanding, neurotic. More so than usual. So the same disaster. Only they would have sex.

Huh. Well, that would pass the time.

_Disastrous_ sex though. Presumably. It would have surely been her first time, and that was always an awkward affair for all involved. Add in the distrust and her natural stubbornness, and it could become painful. For _him_.

If the situation had been different, Revan would never have even dreamed of seducing ever being brought up. She would have been another Jedi he'd helped find their true strength, or another dead Jedi. Now the Sith imagined her captured and locked while he grinned sadistically, then began lecturing her on the merits of the dark side until Bastila begged for mercy. Her so teary and desperate, hair falling into her face for Revan to push back. He might stop, he might relent, but not until she begged, 'Not until you call me Master.' See her look up at him, those full lips parted, a flick of her tongue as she struggled to not give in.

(Oh,_ that_ had turned disquietingly perverted very quickly. Never mind. Move on. Forget about it. Until later.)

Give her the keys to his kingdom, just to imagine her expression. Introduce her to his realm and plans. 'Here is the torture room. Over there is my bedroom. There may be some overlap.' Run away as she grabbed her lightsaber but not run too fast so as to miss witnessing the slipping self-control and vitriol. Turn around to point and laugh when a droid caught her, watch as Bastila would chop it in two, then turn around to aim for his own head.

All that appetite she claimed didn't exist let loose. That might be very frightening. For him.

Revan imagined himself somewhere, perhaps on Korriban, his back turned as he studied his growing domain on maps that sprawled forever. A shiver through the Force, a warning. Then, from the shadows a dark figure struck, literally clubbed his head and then dragged the Dark Lord into the bedroom. Again, chained up for her perverted obsessions and consuming controlling habits, the lectures and demands—only this time there would be more open sexual subtext.

Take her to bed? Him lead another so eagerly into the boudoir? Whatever for? The curiosity of it, her disdain and the self-hatred that would come with agreeing with such a thing. But Bastila would never do such a thing.

Never. Never ever, Revan.

Should he earnestly attempt to woo her, in a different life of flowers and offers of dinner, she would have a stroke. Never, oh, never, didn't you hear me you disgusting, lecherous,_ evil_ man. Back away from his sad form holding a limp bunch of flowers. No, this was Bastila Shan; she would never let anything just _go_.

There would be harassment and vomiting and rants. Smacks with his own gifts. Revan would run away, apologizing all the while, and she would follow him to pinpoint what exactly he wanted and what had gone so wrong in his life to think she might ever be interested in him. Kicked and wounded and rejected.

Revan had seen such courting, if only on holos.

What role was he to play? A wonderful caring lover that whisked her away from the celibate Order. Taboos broken and redefined love made, _oh, my._ Dashing and handsome he was supposed to be as he wooed her. In tighter pants and less buckets and chains. Add some torn robes of silk and more smoldering looks. Alak to act as the villain and add some spice to the second act. Finally, a classy kiss and a tasteful fall of the curtains.

He did know what he was supposed to be, in some holodrama of his life. It was pitifully easy to cobble the basic plot up. Even the costuming was easy. Her in something frilly and delicate and there should be less kicking. In general. No threat of starvation but perhaps coldness and having to huddle for warmth. Come closer my dear Bastila, he would whisper. Revan, you monster, no, I cannot, I hate all you stand for! But I must give into your charm—just this one shamefully time for a single kiss. Sense would return and she would shove him aside very hard so he could act the pained gold-hearted scoundrel, hurt finally by this rejection from his angel and rush off in one particularly dramatic gesture. But then, Malak would show up and threaten her, the real villain revealed and thus someone must rescue her. The climax. Revan would turn out to be the hero after all, to rescue the princess with his trusty comic relief sidekick (actor still undecided, HK or the exiled general? Just strap some bell to either, really) introduced previously in the first act.

Then: one final duel to the death. Malak would make a hammy show of his last words as Revan bore his own wound, living long enough to stumble into Bastila's arms. Oh, tragedy! One final kiss, ah, true love. The audience would weep and applaud, on their feet, bravo. Bow and be buried in the flowers tossed at them.

Backstage, finally, Bastila would slap him. That kiss had lasted far too long, and he better not have thought she hadn't seen him staring at her when she'd been tied up by those ropes and left to dangle like that. Messing up his lines like that in the third act. That hard toss into the set before she could finish with her monologue. And it had taken her hairdressers so long to do this. Still, Revan would be a mook in a billowing shirt, trailing after her. Does this mean we won't meet up at the after party?

He grimaced, grinned.

The Revanchist should have given this Force user thing up and just become a playwright instead. Should he get out of this alive, that's what he would do. Turn over a leaf and begin a false identity as a writer of vulgar romance novels that would make him rich enough to buy an entire planet and retire in peace.

Except even then Shan would track him down—but might have actually gone through with killing him so Revan would have come out ahead.

The problem was, this wasn't a holodrama. Probably. If only.

All an elaborate act! Bastila, any second, would wake up and expose the cameras and tell the hidden director that she had enough of method acting and would like to leave now. That's what she was reading all the time: scripts. Aha! That would explain so much. Revan had nearly bought it, except for that dumb accent and coif on her head. Too much, they had been, they had given it all away.

And after this was over, he would want the actress's address. Show up at her door with a grin and a bottle of champagne and her knowing immediately what he wanted. Do the hair that way? Oh, yes, and the accent too and keep the robes. Perhaps she might even go along with it, secretly charmed and who could resist the scary Sith Lord at their doorstep?

The jokes about his sanity had grown new teeth.

Revan had held his mind together for so many years now. The effort, the monstrous effort to not sink into the haze of that hazed nightmare he'd discovered, to embrace and never leave the holocrons, to be devoured wholly by the Star Forge. All of it for nothing. His Empire would defeat the Republic, sure enough, but would it last long enough, strong enough, to beat the true enemy that lurked and waited for the right moment to strike? How could it, without him there to guide the way?

His lip curled. What was he, though? Just a man after all. An arrogant fallen Jedi, his old Masters whispered. Gone insane from the war. Not even that now, without the Force. A plaything for a woman that had tried to do what she thought was right, and spare him.

Even now, Bastila would say that she had done the right thing. Or, rather, her lips would mouth those words while her eyes went vacant. The light gone, and you could watch her struggle with her panic and dread as she felt every year, every year she would never experience, all she would miss and everything that had been done in exchange for ending him.

How she wrestled and fought with all her beliefs and emotions. Her hubris and not-unearned pride, her curiosity, that she was a stickler for rules, she would not discuss her family out of fear (but he saw or sensed some, what was that, _misery?_ involved there) for what he might do to them. Some part was still sure they could be found, and that he might regain his empire and continue on.

…With her?

Someone chuckled, and then a flood opened. He could hear a crowd, the old crowd that occupied his head, laughing at him. Old Masters and friends, dead or that should be. Laughing at this new sharp turn. All Revan set his eyes on, he received and what did he desire now? 'Her?_ Really? Her?'_

The second general back at Revan's left side. Good clean looks that drew in stares that were met with a oblivious look back. The only one that had left. What could be said between them, if the Exile found out? '…you realize I still remember when you tried to have me killed, right?' Never mind. Useless and less entertaining as _always._

His first Master, then. Eyes blind but not unseeing. What words of wisdom could his finest Master have for him, on the subject of romance and wooing and destiny? 'Don't get her pregnant.'

Vrook, then, right. He was always certain, and frankly, it would be hilarious to see his reaction. 'You want to do what with Padawan Shan? –no, stop _going into detail_, Revan. Force. What went _wrong _with you?' It was always worth the effort it took to rattle Lamar.

Now,_ Atris_, yeah, let's see that: 'Are you claiming you are not planning to kill her? Then what—_no_. Stop telling me of this. And never put me back in your headspace again, Sith.'

Fair enough.

His followers, the assassins and Dark Jedi, throughout the years: 'Can we kill her too?'

Malak would have been just as flabbergasted and disgusted. 'A girl. Her? That stripling girl? The Jedi pest? That one there that chained you up? With that annoying accent and the stupid hair and minor gift with Battle Meditation. Useful enough, on our side, but Master, truly? You want to take as your apprentice and what, lover? _Her?'_

Why was everyone so unhelpful –why did Revan have no support in his own head of all places? Even from his old pupil.

Oh, _Force_, her and his previous apprentice would slaughter each other in less than five minutes. Competing for him, only when she won, would turn her weapon on him—'why didn't you help me? Did you hear what he called me?' Chase him through the halls of Korriban, slaughtering all she saw, 'Revan, you get back here! You think I'll forgive you for forgetting our anniversary!?'

Fun. Fun_ny_, and insane. No, she would murder everyone there including himself. They would not make it to a month anniversary. There was restraint in her, and it was necessary—for everyone _but _her. Facing the troops atop Korriban's crags and temples, announcing his return as he hefted Malak's head by the ear as that was all he could get a grip on, and then behind him Bastila rolling her eyes before literally kicking him off the roof to fall to a grisly death. Very well did Darth Revan remember Korriban and the tombs built into the cliffs; his screams would echo for quite some time.

The voices that had been emptied from him mind had been replaced by a shadowy murkily blue-eyed figure in the corner of his eye to sneer at him.

What was this like? A prodding memory of Malak, Squint, had once teasing him, after finding Revan perched over his favorite protocol droid after another endless night of trying to figure out what was wrong with his voice modulator, that the Knight needed to get a better hobby—or what about a boyfriend or girlfriend. Someone to run him ragged. Really. Immediately. Look at what he was doing. This explained so much.

Considering he'd been up to his elbow in grease and dried blood, Revan had been in no mood. "I have to be at this angle to each the core. Shut up!"

Years ago, when he had been full of certainty and disappointment, could not be wounded by stormy eyes refusing to look at him.

Someone to run him ragged. Godsdamnit, Alek.

Damn her.

Both of them.

Equally.

No, her more.

His apprentice had meant to kill him outright, not force him to suffer. This would have made that man once called Squint wince, if he'd been here, to have to listen to her ramble on more about self-control and things like _celibacy._ 'Master, I apologize—I should have been more thorough in destroying your ship.'

Because of Bastila Shan, Revan had learned the dim frustration of not even being able to scratch his nose properly depending on if she had been mad enough to tighten the restraints. Learned to remember his old lessons of detachment when his legs when numb, when an itch developed in the middle of his back. Dull aches in his shoulders and arms no matter what he did. Having little defenses against her voice as she went on and on.

Bastila—Bastila _made him apologize_ just to receive the _pleasure of her company_.

Then stand there, glaring at him. Hands on her hips or crossed. Her profile to be taken in. The outside to be examined, because he couldn't study the inside of her brain, what made her tick, without only confusing himself more. It was a dumb, stunted way of examining a person, Revan knew, but he had to learn whatever he could of this person who had saved and tied herself to him.

What little of her could be studied.

(All of her to be studied. Soon, soon.)

Hips. Curved figures. Womanly at the first glance but not _lush_, as Malak would have studious declared. Not exotic enough for his friend's taste either. Her chest not flat or particularly full. Though, _intriguing, _the swell of her breasts in that suit. A young woman that was pretty, aesthetically pleasing enough, but not stunning or dazzling, the looks that would be on the Holonet, and so easily irked. Purple smudges under her eyes as she spent another hour arguing with him and some minor blemishes from the stress that were an amusing reminder of her age. Untrusting of compliments and her own abilities and desperate to overcompensate. Ambidextrous, he realized at some point, like him but definitely favoring the right hand while he the left. A Padawan that had some gift, nothing that Revan could even learn from her but only exploit if the situation had been different.

Though, it was a good talent, rare, and one she excelled at—more than once he'd lost ships to her, a few skirmishes and small battles. How much better would she be given better tutelage and with the full extent of the Force? There was that. That, and the brutal fact that when she bent over to retrieve a fallen datapad he had lost his train of conversation about the failings of the Jedi Code. Damned irony.

Okay, he got it now.

If not exactly the _why_.

(he was a Darth, the greatest of all the Sith lords in so many years, untainted by self-pity that passed for some as mercy, and he would not be weakened by some_ Padawan_)

He did not want this. Tied to another. Exposed. Joined.

(he _refused_)

Alarming, this lack of control. More than once, especially around the Star Forge, he might have lost himself in a rage that was not blinding, but allowed him to see _everything_—albeit his vision would be red-veined. But never when it came to _this_ did he give into instinct, not even when it was actually happening and he had another exposed to him.

(he was Revan the Butcher and as such would not be consumed with ardor for some woman that wasn't even a Knight, at the least he would have preferred it be for someone older who could teach him something)

Revan twisted others using attraction and dim lust as tools. Cerebral things for him, never squirming desperate thrusts. Yes, he got off, but what of it? For the sake of curiosity he had gone through those motions, but even that had been given up years ago. Always, he'd thought you kriffed someone for what you saw in them, what they gave you, but Bastila wasn't…what did he see in her but another angry Jedi hanging on the Code by fingernails. Insisting that she would never fall, even while she looked ready to decapitate him with his own lightsaber.

There were times that Revan was sure if she gave him another lecture on his evil ways, he would just bash his own brains out.

'Revan, are you listening?'

'Oh, gods, if only I _couldn't_!'

'Such a comedian. If you weren't too busy making jokes, you might have learned something from the Council and _wouldn't be here_.'

Ignoring his earnest suffering. Eye rolling in legitimate agony. Bastila would have made a very scary Sith Lord. She would not have known when to quit. Not until all the life in the galaxy was snuffed out, and even then, she would have blamed others for that failing. Stomp her feet and huff. Then go on to destroy planets themselves. All that pressure building on a spring, and Revan did not want to be there when it went flying through the air—no, it wouldn't be _his_ eye stabbed out if he could help it.

Her_ voice_. So snotty. Unapologetic. That accent and the acid in it that could peel away durasteel. So lucky that no Padawan had been assigned to her. What a teacher she'd be. This was to whom went on delegation? No wonder the Republic was losing. Why would they assign her to work with people, when she was so controlling? Put her to programming droids. A strange joke that she had the power to _literally _inspire or crush others. Worse than he'd ever been, Revan was sure. He at least killed the incompetent; Bastila wanted them to kill themselves to escape her. Who was the torturer here, anyway?

The smart thing would have been to keep guards around her, with gags for her, just haul her out only for Battle Meditation, then lock her back up. Padlocks and snarling kath hounds watching her and heat-seeking missiles and lasers surrounding her cage. Keep her in, not others _out_. Even Revan would have avoided dealing with this mess, no matter how much he'd enjoyed a challenge. This was no simple encounter, a test to score in, it was grinding pain in his ears, headaches blinding and no yelling at her ever shut her up.

_Kidnapped_ her? Kidnap _her_? Had at one point he'd actually considered that, even in passing? Snatching her up and turning Bastila to his side? Insanity. The dark side could make you lose your mind, truly. Perhaps he had been spending too much time with the Star Forge and his holocrons. Seriously contemplated laying a trap to snatch the new little Jedi that was all but holding up the Republic at this point?

The Republic and the Council _could have her._ Within a week of dealing with that fresh hell, Revan would have dropped her back at an Enclave, fought a war across enemy lines to return her. Personally dropped her off at their doors, her hogtied and gagged, dragged her through the hallowed halls until he found the heart. Throw her inside the chamber, point at the Council members, and howl, '_You deal with this!_'

Bastila's death would have been too kind to the Republic. Let her live and spend every moment with the enemy. Revan would even go out of his way to spare her, and then leave her for the True Sith that waited. Let those horrors meet with his own weapons.

She was, after all, the best defense the Republic possessed.

You had to wonder, with her as its shield, how had the Republic not crumbled? The entire infrastructure soldiers falling down to the way she walked, so strident, and that way she stuck her nose up and lectured you when not ignoring you. He nearly respected her for all the pain she must have brought against his enemies, while simultaneously admiring and pitying all those that had served with her.

Revan understood the loyalty of the Republic soldiers towards her. The looks, they tricked you. You saw blue eyes, brown hair, and a full mouth, and were drawn stupidly in. Perhaps charmed for a second. Trusted her, as someone that good-looking and young could not be entirely awful, right? _Wrong._ But by then the trap had closed and you were too close, she was part of the military and had insinuated herself into your mission and then you were screwed. But at least those brave souls had arms and thus could commit suicide.

How many men and women had tried their luck with Bastila? It would be comforting to know Revan was not alone in this insanity. Let others sink with him into this tar pit that was admiring her nose. Just a lucky break that she had pleasantly clear-enough skin and that waist that asked for hands around it as her eyes and voice never did. Attractive, because of arbitrary standards, and that effect on her had made Bastila disdain and uninterested in compliments. Apparently. Given how she looked so disgusted when Revan would attempt to make a limp, but honest compliment. She went out of her way to avoid actual physical contact, keeping his gloves on and holding a rag against him when she had to touch his skin.

No nymphet, but a thin adult woman. Young but unafraid, all the more willing to prove herself due to that inexperience. Slightly blunt if delicate features and bronze-russet hair. All covered up by what clung but did not expose and was definitely not meant to be a temptation. Still, you wondered what was under and hidden under there. How she got it on. How you got it off. Muscled, sinewy, probably. A fighter. What did her arms look like—no, spare him this. Please.

But the Force did not listen to him anymore.

Instead Revan caught himself wondering if she purposely bit her lip just to distract him and why she would laugh only when she was nervous and what her legs would look like bared and how good her voice would finally sound when she shuddered, muttering his name as he cupped between her thighs, what Bastila had denied the truth of and refused to acknowledge even as her eyes wavered and wandered.

All together it was a package that could be so entertaining. Pretty enough, but it was the rage and talent that were the bow on top.

So unlike _him_ who had never been particularly, needlessly, attractive like someone that could have been put on advertisements. And he had never been prone to mercy and kindness and useless speeches. He was Darth Revan, a title he had fashioned and created with his own hands. But who was the one tied up and being tortured?

If the Republic had a better mind for PR, than just telling of her wonderful Jedi skills, they should have just stuck a picture of her on recruitment posters, everyone would have signed up. How many of his soldiers would have gone over—and how many of those posters would fund the war effort? How many copies would he have bought?

…What?

_What was wrong with him?_

No, that was not a hypothetical question aimed at the Force. Revan truly did want an explanation from some higher power to explain this. Bring someone , Kae or Vander, here right this second; he wanted answers.

Replaced previous issues with whole new ones. But no, Revan didn't want to plaster his ship with images of her. Admire from afar and make a…an _alter _to her in his flagship. Worship what she could do. Turn others to her will, it _was _impressive. As was the hair. The length of time she could continue to talk, even above him pleads for her to stop. That she made him scream in agony, as she read aloud from Jedi handbooks. So_ this_ was torture from the other end. Imagine her turning all that passion towards the galaxy, alongside him? They could wreak so much terror in the galaxy together. Bastila didn't even have to turn the dark side; he could just broadcast another lecture by her. Just keep earplugs in his pocket.

_Why_? Why _her_? Because—when he'd been ill she had cared for him?

...But that was so pathetic? So inane.

But she had done it. Revan would not lie. _Twice_, Bastila had looked after him, even after he'd been horrible to her Order and then personally threatened her life. That only made it all the more wretched. Revan would not care for someone just because they had given him the smallest bit of pity that had only out of obligation and the desperate need for approval.

At the least, he would rather it happen with someone else. Anyone else. One more mature and able to hold a decent conversation. An older person, if need be, one with normal hair and less issue of their own. Not a recent adult that had no idea less an idea of what to do in this situation than he did. Someone, at the least, that did not fumble over some mention of sex and immediately begin peeling through pages in her datapad to begin a new lecture on the dangerous of passion and remind them both that celibacy and duty was the more responsible thing a Force user could do. Then she would look up, all but flushed, and Revan would smile warmly, and Bastila would threaten to empty a bucket of cold water, and then there would be more banter.

Her arrogance and compassion and the temper just hardly held in check. A soft gentle voice that could become horrid when raised. The refusal to accept that one could just give up. The grasp on languages and that miraculous gift of battle meditation that could, with proper training, prove to be the deciding factor in the battles ahead. _Pigtails_.

_What had she done to him?_

Broken him. Smashed him down with one booted foot. Literally once, when Revan had attempted to trip her and she had caught him before he could her. Bastila shunned every attempt at even friendly _silence_. No such thing with her, only brooding silences and bitter guilt trips that would never work on a Sith Lord, damnit, they wouldn't. Blood would soon spill from Revan's eyes as the aneurism took him. Maybe she did deserve monuments. He was her Sith-on-a-leash, a pet she neglected and only sometimes fed and cared for.

For all his intellect, now he had to bargain with a Padawan over trying to get a sonic shower—and being _refused_.

Despise all of her, from the fall of her hair to the training leathers she wore. Her voice. Her. Guttural pain that he felt,_ gugh_, but he did hate her and adore her and admire her for breaking him as no one had been capable of before. 'You win, now shut up!' but she _didn't._

To stop would have been an insult. This was her own way of showing respect, perhaps. Bastila knew better than to trust him wholly, and had to bombard him with what she could.

All passion and some brains that allowed distance she refused to seriously consider. She was half-right about everything and half sure of that fact but wholly terrified of being wrong. Running head first into a wall as hard as she could. Thoughtful but refusing to even contemplate (except oh she did yes, but would never say) possibly having issues with the Order.

He would swallow, and let his eyes become glazed. Reflect on how many ways a person could be broken. 'You know where fear leads, yes?'

'I am not afraid of you!'

When she did fall, Force help the galaxy. Her pupil. Her Master. Hopefully, Revan would be dead by then and spared the sight of her rampage and ruin. Poor Bastila was destined to burn herself out, Jedi or Sith. It was written all over her, doomed, too bright, too passionate to be either. So headstrong. Her Masters had failed to teach her proper restraint and distance. She might be better for it had it been tempered with time, and Bastila was still blind to that entire concept yet.

Yet, for all her flaws, Bastila had saved him.

After hearing of his exploits, after knowing of his reputation and what deal he'd attempted to make with the Republic senators in exchange for the Jedi, after the blood they had shed fighting each other, still, Bastila had saved him.

Out of curiosity, duty, compassion.

Because that was what good Jedi did, they spared.

Bastila Shan was very young.

She still believed in those stories. Of brave Jedi and those that could be redeemed. Stop the bad Dark Jedi and win a prize and reach a certain plateau. Chase that carrot. Bastila wanted explanations, abuse from his overbearing Masters, a bad childhood before the Jedi to rescue poor little him, the followers and what he'd learned in the far reaches of space.

She wanted a narrative.

When Revan might be, just _Revan._

Kae had been a good teacher, if unorthodox, Zhar steady if irritatingly straightforward, even Vrook had been understandable, especially when one grew older and could view the Order with perspective. There had been few monsters in the Order, and even those had been pitiful, murderous fools soon crushed and with only the moderate contact with Revan. These external influences had not made him, not even the war, but had served as chances for him to emerge. Pretexts for the choices that were his own. No box to tick off and easily compartmentalize. The Jedi Order had meant for him to be a librarian.

All the things he did, of his own hand, and through the Force that had led his way. He was. Just was. Not necessarily a result of the external, such as the war and his Masters.

Internal. The internal though.

Even while his raft went over the edge, falling down the waterfall to drown him. A, _what were they_, popular on Taris…a _swoop_ bike, right— bouncing off the walls until it finally burst into flames and exploded.

Was it the collar? Did the lack of the Force free him from his previous problems, of what he can now call delusions and visions, auditory and visionary? No more half-memories to plague him. No more stares where he'd find himself nearly catatonic. He was not that person who dreamed of what hadn't happened and what he hadn't found in the Unknown Regions. Retreats into his thoughts and seeing himself talking and replaying conversations and events no longer happened so frequently. Gone was the pathological ambivalence and paranoia. Trapped and controlled by others, even as they did his bidding. People nothing more than mirrors, as he'd told Bastila. The cage had been lifted, and Revan did not have to step back to study his own thoughts and know they were his own.

No more.

Was it the Force that had created those, or rotten meat in his own head, misfiring synapsis that had been diminished after the blow to his skull? The connection to Bastila and the forceful intrusion of that. So clean his head was now. Not everything had to be analyzed to make sure it was his own, and thank the Force for allowing this.

He had lost everything, it seemed, but for his sanity.

For the first time since he was very young, he felt the chains around his limbs loosened. Hurried mind calmed and thoughts no longer a rush.

Just was.

Just was Revan, if not necessarily The Revanchist anymore. Saved, in some strange way, by the Padawan. In exchange for the galaxy's future, Revan would no longer have to wear a mask with those he trusted (to some extent) to hide his odd grimaces or grins as he studied another map. Talking and plotting, with and to himself, about Malak and the minor pest, that Shan girl, and what to do about the Republic fleet.

Rather beautiful, the irony.

She could debate with him, if unoriginally, and fight with such enthusiasm. Not the first Jedi to fight him, even that day, but she had been next in line and facing him with such bravado. A little like Malak, maybe, so eager, and like Kae so curious and headstrong. The Exiled General with the penchant for Bonds and caring for 'the troops.'

Yet, Revan was not stupid or blind to similarities_ they_ shared. Old stories on the Holonet comparing them, one rising star to another. How _alike_ they were, no matter how much Bastila would have denied such a thing. The certainty and stubbornness, skills and luck. Once there was a time that Revan, had he met a Dark Lord, would have given it his all to turn him back to the light side, complete with hours of speeches. Probably. _Theoretically_. Unsettling, either way, to have that turned back on him. His worst enemy was himself all along, turned feminine and smaller and all the more aggravatingly superior.

What had the Order learned from him, and how did that reflect on her? Too few years' difference between them in order for the Jedi to learn better, and to teach in a different way besides bludgeoning? Or was that just _her _that was so frustrating? The way she had his heart racing, out of violent rage that could not be expressed, her disdain for his attempts to avoid arguing, going out of his way to stay silent or to try to have a friendly conversation, the way she frustrated him quite possibly more than Alak or any Mando or his Master ever could have.

Well. Maybe not_ Malak_.

Bastila would make a face at those comments. 'You think you're such a comforting presence?'

'Let sit quietly then, and think about what we've learned.'

'Let's. Especially you.'

And Revan might hold it in for five seconds before he had to address that statement.

Revan _got it_. Reluctantly. Because of their circumstances, he did enjoy this back and forth. Having someone say no to him, diminish him, was a novelty he oddly could appreciate. Imagine her point of view, and understand better why he was refused to be let go to share her bed. All her fighting and the arguments could be perversely tempting. He wanted her, Force help him, to want _him_. Respect him. He was the Revanchist and had disobeyed the Council, known better than them even when he'd been Bastila's age, and that alone deserved respect. Let alone the rest he'd accomplished. Kept the Sith on _their _leaches. Formed an _Empire_. Who was this girl, practically still a teenager even, that claimed such responsibility over him?

Who was she, huh?

Nothing. A woman that had a gift that was wasted on her. A young person with too much on those small shoulders. The person that he depended on, and had wet dreams about, fine then, gods damn her and Malak and the entire galaxy.

That damned Bond.

Maybe it was the neural collar. Or the brain damage. Or the Bond. Bastila and her gift for inspiring, his lovely accursed muse. Or the brain damage.

It still didn't _mean_ anything. Not if he didn't let it. Another reason to free himself, and wreak vengeance.

Only, when Revan saw himself breaking these chains, so literally, he couldn't necessarily picture himself leaping through this cramped cabin and hurting her as much as he wanted. It came and went, the homicidal urges. When she would hold a cup to his mouth or interrupt him, again, he wanted to send a wave of Force lightning at her. But even then, he didn't want her to _die_, just shut up and stop making that face. The images that came to him easiest were ones of them locked in some painfully adolescent pose of lust, even the violent ones. Or (and this was the_ worst),_ just holding her. Simple contact that now seemed very wanted.

Bastila would flinch away from him, Revan knew, but that only made it all the more fun…When she begged, it would be even more satisfying and well-earned. All he needed was to escape these cuffs. Take off this neural collar, tuned just enough to keep him from the Force. Just do that and when he died, it might even be with some peace.

Though, in fact, it was getting harder and harder to see himself breaking out and the joy of that. If not easier to see Bastila finally taking this collar off and letting him free, that vision was more satisfying. Release him and listen to him, wanting to care what Revan wanted. Then what would follow was even more indignity on his part, no matter what Bastila might claim about wandering eyes and comments about her hostility, denial, and the increasing sexual tension. And it_ was_ increasing…if only on his part.

Hosted by his own petard, it seemed. For all his teasing previously, Revan hadn't been serious. Just jabs to see her reaction, _only now_…Revan did want her to join him. Together, and not just in that bed. That bed. Sometimes, he would simply dream of _sleeping_ in it, without her, just lie there stretched out as much as possible. Maybe chain her up and see how much she appreciated being at his mercy, squirming at his touch, bending down to touch her through her underwear, see how she liked that. Have your genital manipulated by someone making a face as though about to vomit. See that angry flustered face. Kiss her and have her kiss him back, to the point of delirium. _Smile _at him.

Something even worse lingered too, and Revan knew it. This thing with extra sharp teeth spread in a smile. What it informed him. What might be even worse than all of that, was _wanting_ to be hurt so. He might desire to be broken so by her, enjoy this emotion, and that was the end of the line for Darth Revan the Butcher.

Was this what others had felt, when they saw him or Alak, years ago when the war started and they were on the Holonet, gossiped about and studied? 'Single and available' and all that rot about what they fancied in a partner, and interviews given with such droll and winks as the hosts wondered aloud what Revan looked like. If it were a man behind that mask or a woman or a droid so programmed for charm. Often, Revan had all but run away and left his pupil to face that. Watch from a safe distance the questions about The Revanchist as Squint tried to be a good sport. 'If they were no longer a part of the Order, did that mean…' All the more appealing because of their vows and their important mission. What was held out of reach made it all the more tempting. Yes, yes.

Her collection of curves, graceful and balanced. Awful, mortifying and terrible the feelings she'd awakened. Beautiful. If she were a man, it would be the same, Bonds and crazed control issues, but she wasn't. And there was something extra appealing of her acts of femininity, of pushing back stray hair, the soft features and her curves in profile. That she was pretty was irrelevant, but her appearance was not. Less and less he minded the sound of her voice even. He would not have been disgusted to touch her.

Certainly, Revan was less uncomfortable with her own hands on him.

With Bastila sleeping, Revan could just sigh freely. "Kriff."

Before, his taunts had only been to embarrass her, one of the few cards left in his hand. Getting groped by an annoyed Jedi that hated him was novel enough to stir his attention, true enough. But when you wanted to purposely annoy her, just so she'd speak to you, there became a problem. Hating every word, then yelling at her when he got bored, coming up with on-the-fly insults and rants towards the Order, towards life, towards her and her stupid speeches. Her skin looked so soft.

Hang your head, Revan, you deserve it.

He wanted to screw her, violently, slowly, until they blew apart, until she was left crawling. Understand now why people engaged in such stupidity for the hope of a touch, a brief seizure. Worse (and here that fanged thing bit down), Revan _wanted_ to have some imitation of a partnership. Give and take.

No, no, he rejected that entire stance, the existence of some mocking imitation of friendship and longing. _Never._

He would not be that trite cliché, that villain so softened by feelings for another, he would not weaken, he would not wonder if she had any idea how her nose scrunched that certain way and how perfect that was. No, Revan would not let there be a lovesick adolescent pining for another's attention. He would laugh with scorn and crush that growing sickness inside him as he had any other opponent he had ever faced.

I despise you. I reject your entire existence, Bastila Shan. You have failed, a failure of a Jedi, you could never convert me to the light side. What a pitiful life you have,_ had_. I won't I deny it all I will not _care_ for you in anyway. What? Are you laughing? Stop smirking. Shan, listen to me, we are enemies and you can't just appear in my head and confuse me like this. Look at me. _He would take her by the shoulders, and shake her. _Hated enemies. I control you here in this place. Stop…being you. Being so tempting. Stop. Oh, I can't say any of this to you.

Even in my head, this is desperate.

What Revan really wanted to go back in time, and be captured be Mandalorians so he could at least later have the warm comforting memory of physical torture to remind himself of what the touch of another could do. But there were other similar avenues to explore. The things his hand had done. Awful hideous things, and they could never touch her because of that. Never find themselves on her thighs, spreading them. Her voice in his ears, could she say, 'Revan, you are simply impossible. Is this your idea of teasing me?' Dissolving into a terrible game of who could wait it out longer, and Revan _would lose._

He _never _lost games.

Or had a lover, exactly. Or went out of his way to want one.

Or kissed without some voice wondering about germs and the reduction of humanoid forms as bags of meat.

Another sigh, this one even more lovelorn. If HK were here, he could shoot Revan and put him out of his mercy.

But let Bastila live. Yes, that sounded right. Close his eyes and hold his head up after all. Let her go on to be eaten alive with guilt. Or at least not die by HK-47's trigger. Revan should have the honor to kill her by hand, and the one to decide one way or another. After they had screwed, finally, and he grew bored with her nagging and _braids_, that _ridiculous _hair. What in the seven Corellian hells was with her hair?

"What are you grinning about?"

He didn't jump. Revan the Butcher was never surprised. Except for lately. "Nothing."

Krif. Should have something about her being fed alive to kath hounds.

Though she did look lovely so suspicious in the morning. _Krif._

"Really?"

Hair all falling about in curls that made his stomach twist unpainfully. Things went watery and refracted. The drugged quality of the collar, with or without the collar, Revan believed. It was his emotions that turned his brain to mush. Especially when she, say, tugged off his gloves to inspect the state of his wrists, and skin met skin.

"No, I'm thinking about how deeply I've fallen in love with you."

"Hilarious," she sniffed and then stood up. Bastila was stretching, and it wasn't sexual, it was stiff limbs, but still, _enthralling_.

Revan had to force himself to continue talking. "Does that mean you don't like me?"

"I'm afraid you're not my type, Revan."

"Heartbroken." His tongue traced over his teeth. "What is your type, out of curiosity?"

Bastila had been trying for humor, but she why not inquire about her taste? She was only human. And he'd seen the way she'd flinched when touching him far too intimately. She might very well be capable of crushes.

Gods, Revan hoped she hadn't been one of the giggling Padawans that had preferred sighing and gazing wistfully at _Alak_. All stupid broad shoulders and square-jawed Holonet charm. Steely looks from blue eyes as he looked into the cameras, we will do what is necessary. No, not Bastila, she would have found that as irritating as he had, if not more so. Not even amused or bemused by that reaction, not ever. Jedi did not have crushes, so neither would Bastila Shan. No crushes or secret fantasies for her. If she so much as looked at another for too long, Bastila would have slapped the thought out of her head. Or, more likely, slapped that person.

If only she would slap him.

And they all had thought it was the Exile that had been the broken one.

Her sigh was more whimsical than his own had been. "I'm tired of listening to you. Why don't you try getting some more sleep?"

More staring at her legs, at her face, at her, no, oh no. Wet clothes still clinging to him. Revan's mouth opened, and he was thankful for what came out. "Don't you dare _ignore me. Who do you think you are?" _

Bastila didn't even cringe. Didn't even _blink._ "Do I have to get the gag?"

Growling would have been worse. As would insults. Instead, he had to let go of his emotions, twitching, and try to say something that wouldn't dissolve with her covering her ears (the indignity of_ that _alone). There had been so many articles written about his speeches. Crowds formed to hear his words. "I am trying to have a conversation with you. Since I can't exactly read a datapad now can I?"

He could not be left alone with his mind, distraction free.

There was that too, a thankful break from his spinning mind. While he had never suffered 'delusions of grandeur' as she called it, he had been growing increasingly paranoid. Revan could admit it. One did not rise as high as he had without wariness of others. Not hallucinations, exactly, but not-hallucinations. Neurons and synapsis engaged and his cortex to tell him exactly what he was witnessed, discarding irrelevance. Revan knew these things, medical and science.

Yet there had been things. Things that were, and could not be. Force visions, but twisted and strange. No reality was objective, especially with these minor vessels they were trapped in, but that did not bring assurance. His brain working meat gone rotten. Faces beneath cowls and the hungry monsters that hid their faces, his Master, the Exile, traitors that had died by his hand turned faceless by time. _His Master._

But that had ended, those visions, on this ship. Erased. Revan did not fear waking up in a pool of sweat, trapped in his unmade bed like a child that had too many sweets. He might resent waking, but it might be better than the relief he'd felt to know that had been a dream. Relief that lasted until later, when he found himself mumbling and studying another screen, and seeing_ her_ in the corner of his eye—not a dream, he was awake. The slippage of his mind.

Now, Revan was on top of that. Back to the mental strength he'd possessed when this war against the Republic began. Clear-headed and even. Everything was ruined, his plans destroyed thanks to his past lover and the woman that would not touch him, his Empire was set ablaze and undefended for the darkness to swallow whole. The Emperor had won after all, and there was no way to slip free of this noose tied around his neck as the chair was kick away. He was, very nearly, happy.

She thought he had lost his mind, half-believed the lies spread about him in regards to mental stability. That was why he grinned so, and made jokes about their deaths. But she was nearly halfway there, to seeing what he did.

No more Battle Meditation and acting as a pawn for the Republic and the Order, without a voice or say. The controlling urge to protect everyone, the scramble to undo or reduce harm. Hubris deserved but apologized for by those threatened. How well Revan knew of this path. Bastila too was prone to her own fits of narcissism, and bad dreams, restlessness. Perhaps his gift back to her. Things she did not speak of, even when Revan asked nicely.

Himself, he dreamed of ritual torture, crowds going mad as they usually did, hushed whispers of headsmen. Needles to piece the fleshy parts of his body, evisceration to witness the spillage the purple and gray of his intestines, ten gun salutes pointed to his head. Often set before a mirror, to witness exactly what was being done to you, another member of the audience.

"I can hold one up for you."

"So long as I don't have to be gagged."

"You still can be. Then just blink twice if you want me to change the page."

Making jokes at his expense. The gall.

Bastila, you should be floored as I am, weakened and broken, honored to even have hurt me in such a way.

Revan swallowed what felt like an actual ball of blood clogged in his throat. "Either we drive each other further into insanity, or we find a way to get along. That is what you seemed to believe earlier. Or have you been broken of your idea that this is a peaceful vacation?"

Bastila was straightening the blankets. Soon the Jedi would get up to change and be all the more tantalizing for being hidden behind that door with Revan left with his imagination. "What would you like to discuss then?"

Find something, Revan. Some question! Now your brain decides to stop working!? "How old are you even?"

This insult, a child, a girl, still stung her. Too young to realize it was smarter to agree to others understatements and slip beneath radars. If she'd ever been a soldier, she might have known that. "How old are _you_?"

"Older than you. Wiser. A better conversationalist thus far."

"Stop staring at me," she snapped. Nearly crossing her chest, all primness.

He hadn't even been _staring_ at her.

Had he?

"Or what?"

"I'll—I'll blindfold you."

"Blindfolds? What did the Order get up to after I left?"

That face was meant for sneers. A perfect Sith, just for the loveliness of her disdain. "Perhaps you shouldn't have left so soon and you'd know?"

"I suppose so. Not before you and I became better acquainted, huh?"

What was this _bantering_? Were they…was this flirting? There was some odd back-and-forth that seemed to be a telltale sign of that.

Ah, hadn't he once mocked Alak, when he'd come to Revan, asking for advice on women of all things, in an uncharacteristically elliptic way. He'd been so brusque, almost mocking and somewhat unnerved by Squint having such distractions that might affect their war effort. Revan had fallen back on the old Jedi standby on those matters. 'Pupil, you have learned nothing from the years at the Enclave.' Avoid romantic entanglements at all cost, for they lead to the dark side and such, rot that he'd been told unnecessarily. Cruel, cruel fate.

If he had the chance to speak to Malak, what could he ask now? 'How do I make this miserable excuse of a Padawan agree to a sexual liaison with me before we commit murder/suicide?'

The reply of course would be: 'Why aren't you dead yet?'

In the old days though, in the old days, Alak might have said something different. Mocked each other and compared their failed attempts at relationships and who had chosen the worst woman to care about. Back before the jaw incident, and marks of the dark side, when they were considering 'catches.' Carefree bachelors in those years, before he developed nostalgia and this twilight of his life. Go back then and learn how to make floral arrangements for something besides his own amusement, and learn how to sing love songs for reasons besides annoying his companions. Maybe even ask the Exile for— hah, no, _no_.

Squint might have laughed and joked about her, of all people, Revan 'fell' for her. That annoying girl who was more uptight than him, that even as a child had scorned their popular study groups that formed around Revan? Did they compete over who knew more about Jedi lore, who gave more annoying speeches, who had more fans and the most disturbing letters from those groups?

"It really was a shame we miss the chance to know each other better. If only you were a little bit older. Imagine all the things we could have done under our Master's eyes."

Bastila shuddered violently, and Revan chose to ignore that with as much dignity as he could. "Yes, the tawdry groping under the tables. Make out in the library stacks and later deny it. Like my favorite general and a certain archivist back on Coruscant."

The Jedi nearly did a double-take. "What?"

Before he'd even met that least favorite general and gone to war and met Bastila. A time to be savored.

For the first time in a long stretch, Revan could wish to be back there, before the Mando war and the traps he'd agreed to that would enclose him sealed shut. Go back and redo, undo. Not the wars and battles and lives, but for the personal. He missed his friends and laughter, making fun of their acquaintances and their foolish affairs, homework and studied, and falling asleep with a book over his face as he lay there on Dantooine in the brown grass, and _peace_.

Still, one couldn't move backwards as far as Revan had been able to discover yet. Thus he was left here, with Bastila, having to talk about Atris of all people. And using her as an example of how Jedi could stray and engage in physical relations. The Archivist most definitely not appreciate being brought up in this context. Or at all, probably.

"It was practically an open secret," Revan continued. "Why do you think she was so angry at the Exile for leaving? At me, and all the other Jedi that left? I told you, everyone's a prop for others."

"She knew it was a waste," Bastila protested. Positively scandalized. Maybe she did make a poster-perfect Jedi after all. How they loved gossip.

"Oh, Atris just didn't like sharing. What, you think that you were the first Jedi to realize love and sex still happened. How old are you? You are old enough by now to have gotten drunk and made an ass of yourself by trying to grope a long time crush in the closet off the Right Wing of the male dormitory. I'm not sure whether to congratulate or pity that poor soul."

That lucky bastard.

"Of course not." Eyes all alight with curiosity, despite herself. "Did you? I'm sure you've made an ass of yourself plenty of time, but when you were drunk? Did you truly have feelings for someone, Revan?"

Did she? That was the question. Had she ever lingered around the Archive in hopes of spotting a certain Jedi? Had she ever found herself awkwardly standing there, making excuses for staying later and trying not to make a fool of herself? The uncomfortable excuses that so many adolescent Jedi would make.

Was there some hidden crush in her past? Surely Bastila wasn't_ that_ repressed. Who was to say someone else hadn't gotten their hooks in her and made out during a drunken Yule holiday party? A certain person that made Bastila laugh in that uneasy nervous way of hers. Someone to recall in the dark moments, with a certain wistfulness. Stolen kisses when alone, a brief affair, someone else had known that mouth as he never had. That little bastard.

Still, Revan knew better than to pull too many of those threads. If she had any idea how deep the insanity went, it could go very badly. "That's just projection. I never said I did that."

Bastila was_ smiling_ at him, and he despised her anew, himself as well, his fingers for going so numb and not because of the lack of circulation. "Are we gossiping, Revan?"

Now he was distracted by the shape of a Padawan's chin. It was her own feelings, being filtered back through him. Her anxieties and wants and desires; she had the same curiosity and attractions that most other being possessed. A human woman that had been raised on the necessity for no attachments and now feared the width of all she'd never experience.

But why did it affect him so much?

Why had he not minded it?

(why had he started it then, if it were so simple, if it had just been a joke to unnerve her when she could not be so easily rattled and he knew_ that_)

Did it matter where it came from? How could he even say that?

Her stare pinned him—her eyes like silver leaves of moonlight on a river—oh, he was kriffed, there was _nothing_ more pathetic than someone lovesick and trying for poetry, Revan knew. Because he'd mocked others for such things.

"Perhaps we are. And we've never had a more pleasant conversation. Look at you, almost laughing without taking out the hair-shirt. I like to think that's my influence."

"I haven't taken care of someone like this."

"There's a_ lot_ you haven't done."

The Jedi had come far enough to understand what a leer was.

She even stared back at him, not _considering_, but at least not flinching back. It had only lasted a delightful second, and he knew better, he did. Oh, _now _the Jedi learned to make jokes, but still, this might be a_ start_. Gods, Bastila really had broken him.

"Perhaps," she said, dead-pan. "If you shaved."

"Or another week of slow dehydration and hunger on your part?"

"Even _delirious_ from hungry I would still know how disgusting a man you are, Revan."

Once, woman and men had thrown themselves before him just to see him sneer at their pathetic forms. Magazine articles in datapads had been dedicated to the supposed attractive face that his mask held. All about his sex life. If he had one. If he even were a man or a woman or a machine.

He had stopped the Mandalorians, he recited again. Yes, that had been him. He had avenged the Cathars. He had freed slaves. He had done what so many others before could never accomplish. He had discovered a long dead civilization and held the power to change the galaxy in his hands. The finest Jedi of his generation. The last and strongest in a long line of Sith.

Bastila turned her nose up at him, literally, and walked away from him, and it drove Revan up the wall. Especially when she was getting dressed, ignoring him entirely, and he was forced to imagine her tugging on that tight training suit that was such a lesson in enticement despite or because of how little skin it showed. Bastila was entirely blind to this, and that made it all the more aggravating in its own way.

She didn't deserve his—whatever the hell this was. Earnest attractive and lust. To cause him to fantasies about her bending to pull up her trousers from around her ankles, wiggling into them, to wonder how she pulled that shirt on. This trust to not be stabbed in the back. Did she have any idea how lucky she was, even now, to have been so connected to a Sith Lord that had been within inches of destroyed the Republic? Just some Padawan, so righteous, like the others so full of themselves they could shit limbs. Annoying, nagging, a constant dragging weight on him, an anchor, a wretched excuse for a Jedi though she of course would refuse to even listen to his insults therefore proving his point.

_'You don't deserve me!'_ He could fling in her direction.

Already hear her mocking laughter. _'No, I don't.'_

When she came back, Revan momentarily studied what might be discreet clasps, and understood he had become that foolish Senator or diplomat that threw away everything in the stupidest way for their idiotic affairs.

She had been thinking about him in there. Gnawing at something and sorting her arguments out. "No wonder you fell considering how obsessed you are about—_that."_

The things he wanted to do to someone that couldn't even describe any sexual activity but in the most oblique way. The Force had a sick sense of humor. Again, Revan saw himself on a raft, powerless, tied up and watching the end of the river approach coming closer until over he went, screaming.

"Our mutual attraction is definitely a weakness."

"I knew that already." The Padawan looked far from pleased, but Revan was still put off. Though uplifted, sickeningly, by her minor admission that would be dashed in seconds. So, this is what it meant to have feelings for someone so desperate you would _want _to stepped on by them. "—Not that it's _mutual_. Why would you even say such a thing? Obviously it's one-sided. If that. You cannot have those sorts of feelings. A blessing, really. And neither could I ever return such a feeling, even if you _weren't_ a Sith Lord. You just enjoy making me uncomfortable, don't you, Revan?"

Getting herself all worked up. Out of kindness she didn't even believe he was capable of, Revan stopped her. Though, even in this it was selfish considering he couldn't deal with a speech on proper Jedi detachment and ideals concerning attraction. "Oh, shut up. I've done far more in terms of sexual activity than you could ever dream of in your most repressed dream."

All those things were nothing now.

This entire conversation was growing thin.

And _painful._

For him.

This was the last person he would ever see, and she was an obnoxious, lovely, passionate, haughty Jedi Padawan.

No matter how Bastila might make that face, that one right there, Revan was the one truly suffering.

If they did get out of this mess, what would follow? Take her to Malachor, for what? To break her? He wanted to _hold her hand_. If anything, he would take her there for a picnic and to see her have to fight some of the misshaped monsters that stalked that place. Set her loose there unarmed, for sport, he would chase her down with only his lightsaber, maybe nothing else, including clothes,_ krif_—no, just no. But when he caught her, and beat her, had her submitting to him…okay, that one was the Echanis' fault. Afflict remarkable unspeakable agony on her? _How?_ Even if Revan put a gag in her mouth, it would be miserable because of her stares, so angry, no, what if they turned to _begging_? _Physically_ torture her? With this connection they shared? Revan was of the sadist type, he admitted freely, not a masochist.

His lover, mate, girlfriend, strapped to an interrogation table.

No, _worse_, his lover, mate, girlfriend, strapping him to an interrogation table.

With his _permission_.

Because he trusted her. Trusted, and could not see her pleading with him to stop hurting her. Not-quite-blue eyes swimming with tears, never, not because of him, please. Nuzzle and comfort, ah, that urge burned. The ability to hurt her, and completely averse to doing so. This was what they warned you about after you'd gone to the dark side. Mercy, he was being _merciful._ Well, not now, but in the future, if he was let out of these constraints, Revan would not snap her neck like she deserved. No, he would rather, well, rather ask her out for what passed for dinner at this point.

'No, thank you.'

'—I could kill you now!'

'Then why don't you? I'd rather die than ever touch you, Darth Revan!'

'…please?'

Revan didn't expect that, none of it, not from this woman that seemed to have made some pact to always take everything concerning herself seriously—but he _wanted_ it, despite himself. Look at her. What he couldn't have.

The Hell of waking up like this, the howling dread in him, the animal stink of him under stress that he'd never suffered through so much. Because of her.

"_And_? Are you listening? Is that why you stare at me and make those comments? Sexual addiction?"

Revan made himself laugh. "That is not entirely accurate—I am not a neurotic compulsive like you. It's just another weapon to use. I could go without that act if I could but certain it is necessary. If only to have someone lower their guards. Fools that confuse a feeling with the person causing it. I'm not afraid of it like you are. Why are we discussing this? Shouldn't you be embarrassed and on a feinting couch?"

…what was he even going on about? Had he been _babbling?_ That concussion was to blame for this. His brain was swelling, and only his brain.

"I can say things back at you, Revan. You are the one exposed and vulnerable."

"Like I said, I'm not afraid of sex. You want to tell me how absolutely devilish I am, devastatingly handsome? How I've made you feel like you've never felt before? I'm like no man you've met before, right? Of course I'm not."

Though a part did flinch at her taking out the bucket, at the self-consciousness that rose when she looked at him in the remnant of his infamous armor, and the sudden wish that he_ could_ shave. His patchy upper lip could not be helping him in any way. Damn, but he could all but hear the old taunts from his past friends during a long stretch he was unable to attend to his appearance properly. Bumfluff.

Bastila was, after all, the Hope of the Republic, and in possession an adorable frown and, frankly,_ gorgeous_ clouded irises that made him understand why someone used such adjectives in describing something as mundane as eye color. Someone he had hoped to meet for very long. Letting himself down right now, his reputation in tatters before a woman he hoped to turn to his side and full potential unleashed against his enemies.

Once, Revan had an entire armada, an army, at his beck and call. All the strength of the Force, the ability to bend all he encountered to his will. He might have broken her in every way, and that knowledge they shared made this all the more painful. All the while, still, they drifted unmoored and _still_ Bastila Shan was uninterested in letting loose her captive.

From the jagged edges of Malachor and the red crags of Korriban, his true empire that was without the trappings of civilization, the fleets at his command that outnumbered the Republic, and now here. Armies had flinched at the sound of his voice, and entire planets had caved beneath the weight of him. His hands had wrapped around systems' necks, and he would have replaced the Republic with his own Empire. Revan the Conqueror. Revan the Butcher.

Revan the Meek. Revan the Defeated. Revan the Smitten.

And he was, he was.

If he ever managed to find his way back to his empire, could he even expect any Sith to follow him? Anyone to still respect him? Betrayed by Malak, spared by a Jedi, a _Padawan._ Worse than that even, Revan didn't feel quite the same man that had found the holocrons, beaten the Mandalorians, found the maps, that had faced that terror in the darkness. His very self felt a shadow of what he'd been not long ago.

He felt…

Bastila was turning away, finding her own separate sane self.

At least she didn't know. Though sometimes she woke startled and uncomfortable, and Revan would know she had dreamed of him. Revan could also see the curiosity she denied, and she must pick up his own emotions in turn; a Bond might allow certain unwanted things to be shared, including memories. But, still, Bastila didn't know the full extent of how he felt. Not yet.

He saw the pale soft throat, her disgust, remembered the careful way she held a mug of water to his lips, the pitch to her voice when she was excited. The light and dark of her eyes.

"What insane thoughts are going through your mind now?" She asked, all wariness in the galaxy apparent on her young face.

"Torture."

"Is_ that_ why you look so happy?"


End file.
